Note For Rent

Bedding Triptych

I had three final clients in the week before my departure.

The first was a psychiatrist.

The second had broad-spectrum Autism.

The third was a psychiatrist.

I suspect that the universe has been trying to speak to me in code.

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.)

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.

Law of Averages

Sometimes you don't know what you're going to pull out of the hat.

"What would you like me to do?"

"Um... I want to do to you."

Okay. So, I just lay back and...

One lick and one kiss: left nipple, right nipple, belly button. Pause. Suck cock, for about twenty seconds. Pause. Repeat.

For an hour and a fucking half. I'm not kidding.

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.

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.

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.

Rough Diamond

When Viagra first appeared (O, that blue diamond in the pharmacists chest, so tantalising), I remember watching the news story covering its appearance, and my first thought was:

Those poor prostitutes.

All I could see in my mind's eye were dissatisfied johns, out for a tour in the car, away from they're wives: randy, lonely, and wanting a torrid night of forgetfulness.

Men have been trolling about similarly since the beginning of time; the thing is, usually, once a man gets off, and the erection wilts, so does the will to continue whatever folly (be it monetary, moral, or indecent) he was up to. He shrugs, beings to fight some sleepy eyelids, and then says something like,

"Well, I'd best get going...."

But with chemical enhancement, I imagined girls negotiating a price, and then getting stuck with a guy that still wanted to go... and go and go; I saw a world once understood suddenly taken for a sharp turn into tedium. (At the time, I was only imagining the mechanics of street walking -- escort hadn't entered my conceptual repertoire -- neither had I imagined the specifics of sex-work transactions, and that you could charge by the hour, not just by activity.)

 

Little did I know what I'd be up to a few years later.

Among the many things I know now, that would never have occurred to me then, is how to identify Daddy's Little Helper at work.

If you take off the trousers and it's hard as a nail already, without stimulation -- without barely a kiss -- that's a sign. If it doesn't flag, or change in density, ebb, or perk up intermittently, he's either a freak of nature (and cheers, mate) or he's decided to dip into the prescription on the way from the bar to the rent-boy.

* *

Thing is, dude was boring, as well as drunk and unskilled. While it's generally true that the ones that want you to fuck them also want you to be aggressive and use them hard, throw them around a bit, this guy was more of a "take tab A and then insert into slot B sort" -- all of his instructions were painstaking. I felt like I was on set more than having an intimate moment with another human being, and despite the fact that his tent-pole was hoisted so admirably, there was no hunger in his touch, no crave or fancy in his body for mine.

"I'm going to fuck you now." As we'd negotiated earlier, this was fine.

A short while later:

"Now I want you to fuck me."

Um. I'm having technical difficulties.

"Just put it in."

"I'm not hard." I flopped for him.

"Just make it hard," he said to me, on his back, looking at me... quizzically? You've got to be kidding.

First off, do you even know how to sexually stimulate someone? Have you ever even tried? If you're really into this idea of getting nailed, I suggest that you develop some tricks, or even an in-bed manner that suggests that you want the other person to be there. Learn how to give head; that would be a nice start. Ask questions like, "what can I do to get you excited?" There are helpful things; but buddy, darling, dear source of my income, please don't try and pretend this shit is easy when you've had to take medication to stiffen your ego, and you're not even willing to share.

So that was a no-go. I tried to come up with alternatives, but at that point he became jejune and grumpy. C'est la vie. We lapsed into a very business-like torpor for the remaining few minutes until he got off.... It stayed hard. I rolled my eyes.

"You really should get better at keeping an erection," he told me.

I looked at him incredulously. "Oh?"

"I mean, it's your job."

"You're absolutely right. I'll practise more at home."

It's advice like that that keeps me humble.

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.