Note For Rent

Who's In My Underwear?

"Dancing" is a different animal from sex-for-pay. I'd forgotten.

Well, in all honesty, I didn't have anything to compare it to when last I did. Dance. Naked, for money.

The way you sell yourself as an object of gyrating desire is completely different than as one of abject sexual complicity. Here again, the girls have the scene sewn up. They've got props, a gazillion clubs, and a culture that allows men to meet in office towers before heading down to get sat on by a g-stringed amazon in stilettos. And the girls have it figured out, the parrying of priapic bellicosity; but mind you, they also have to deal with the inherent sexisim involved in the purveying (suggestion) of female desire, along with all the shit that goes with it--but boys, we're not quite as sorted out with the whole thing. For example, what's the predominant relationship that's being emulated or acted out here, one fellow naked and the other observing? Who's up to what, exactly? For that matter, who's up to be up whom's whatnot? And when, exactly, is too late for a boy to be compensated when there's a naked thigh tentatively fretting against a crotch?

Stripping can be fun, there's no doubt about that. What I find interesting is that now, after becoming familiar with the details and caveats of more, shall we say, full on sex work, I'm much more inclined to find it so, because whatever inroads we make towards true sexual congress when I'm in underwear that barley keep me in, and there's a man with a stack of bills in his pocket taking me to a back room, there's still no agreement for sex, no guarantee even of me touching him. It's all promise, not contract.

In layman's terms, drunk, lascivious men that want to do dirty things to me can't, unless I let them, and I still get paid. There's a whole club backing my decisions up: bouncers, bartenders, managers. When I first took my underwear off on a platform, it was nerve-wracking; as an older, wiser sex-worker, there's something of the "fuck you" in the act. I smile a lot.

It's an interesting way to decompress.

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?

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 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.

Satisfaction, Part 1

The Big Questions

How did you start with prostitution and why are you doing it?

It’s like cats. You can see them provoked into exploration across a narrow ledge, focused just to see the other side of a precipitous roof; it’s always been the same for me. If I want to see something from a different angle, figure something out, uncover a certain unknown, there I’ll be, inching out across a drainpipe.

I started as a go-go dancer/stripper. This did not involve prostitution in and of itself, in fact, was probably just as lucrative for me as hooking, even with it’s own set of issues and complications. However, it was my gateway profession. You get propositioned a lot by men in burlesque dance clubs, especially as the blokes get drunker and drunker throughout the night. When you turn them down, they make what they think is a natural assumption seeing as they’ve been paying you to take your clothes off, or as it often happens, have watched other people pay you to take your clothes off, and then start asking you for a price to come home with them. Turning them down becomes reflexive and sometimes stylish, with clever retorts that sometimes take their fuzzy brains a little while to figure out. (“Alright, baby. I’ll charge you to wait outside the club.”) But every once and a while, someone moderately attractive and sexy would ask, and that question would float up: what would be the harm?

So I started by seeking out the answers to questions I was asking myself, mainly what it would be like, who the people were that were asking, and how I would feel about it afterwards; all queries I’m still searching through.

I also like money.

What type of prostitution do you do, for example are you a "High-end" sex-worker?

I don’t know how these distinctions really break down, especially in the gay-male world of companionship-for-pay. The labels are most likely self-imposed past the level of “blow you for a twenty” off the street in Boystown, something which I have never done. I have worked in brothels, I have solicited my own clients randomly from clubs (never planned), and am now booking my services by advertising on the Internet. I price myself at the top end of the scale for the area that I’m in, and below what traveling porn stars and the evidently statuesque body-builders do; but not by much. I seem to be developing a stable of clients who like the fact that I’m educated and speak in complete sentences, and that I’m easy to take out in public. Ideally, I would like to have a few regulars who book me for substantial periods of time, and very little fuck-and-run business, so I guess that this would put me in the Higher-end, but by no means exclusive range.

Gay-male companionship comes with a different set of stigmas and complications than the male/female dynamic. Many of my clients are married, heavily closeted and uncomfortable being identified as a man who desires the romantic or sexual companionship of another man; this necessitates an even greater level of secrecy and discretion than most female sex-workers have to contend with -- it also greatly reduces the amount of business that I might otherwise conduct out in public, as a paid date or travel partner, even though they might like to if they weren’t quite so self-conscious.

What do you call yourself or your profession? Would you consider yourself a prostitute?

I do consider myself a prostitute, and as a man who loves synonyms and his thesaurus, I like to use the whole spicy mélange: garcon de joie, call boy, cocotte, concubine, courtier, hooker, hustler, midnight cowboy, model, party boy, pro, slut, tramp, trollop, whore, working boy.

I never use gigolo. It makes me think of some smarmy Italian fellow with a vulgar preponderance of gold jewelry. 

Do you have female as well as male customers?

I don’t; although I know a couple of guys who do.

Do you ever have customers that want to please you, and do you ever get pleased from a customer?

All the time, and often.

Most clients want to feel that you are enjoying the experience together as much, if not more so, then they are, and want to feel desired and skillful as lovers. They are often not terribly desirable and not very skilled, but if you have a knack for it, you can learn to visualise past their shortcomings and start using them as masturbatory aids, thereby helping with the whole fantasy aspect of the work.

But the ratio of genuinely enjoyable johns to not is probably higher than you would think.

Could you ever imagine yourself initiating a private relationship with a customer?

Yes, and I have; but it became very complicated very quickly, and the lines of emotional and monetary commitment became hard to negotiate in almost no time at all. It’s not something I’m inclined to attempt again.

Do you have a partner that you love ( with whom you have sex with)? Does that sex differ from the sex for sale? How?

I have a partner that I’m very fond of and see often, and we’ve been having especially fervent, window-rattling sex lately, so yes, it differs, as all recreational sex differs from that which happens as part of a transaction.

No matter how well I get along with someone, if they’re passing you a stack of 50’s to have you in the room there’s an onus to perform the service you have advertised. If you want to provide a quality service, this informs the decisions, choices and pace you pursue during a session. Unless you’ve developed a rapport, this generally means the sex is not as spontaneous as it might be between two people who are just dying to rip each other’s clothes off.

What is the difference between sex in work, and sex in private or more specific sex with love?

Sex with love bends all reason, light, gravity and electromagnetic force to a super particle of wordless exclamation; and paroxysms that burn with wonder.

Otherwise, outside of love, it runs the rest of the world’s painful spectrum: muddled to mundane, tiresome to terrific, gratuitous to gratifying, yet always an act that refuses to go out of style, despite the fact that it’s hopelessly overdone.

What is love to you?

I could write a book.

What is prostitution to you?

Ignoring issues creative and metaphoric, sex for money.

Do you ever get tired with sex?

Oh, god. Yes.

Is the money a major factor in your job?

Money is the major factor in my job; as it is in most jobs.

If you could choose to be something else that you enjoy making the same amount of money would you do it instead? Is this work just like any other work to you? Is it "only" a work to you?

Prostitution affords me a number of things, but most prominently it gives me free time. Any alternative I could be busying myself with, that would render me a similar annual yield, would not give me that luxury. I will not be at this forever, but as I travel and try to figure out the other aspects of my life which have been burdening me with choices, and not enough room to work them out, it's ideal. It’s work unlike any other; it’s bizarre and exhausting, not to mention dangerous if you don’t keep your wits about you and make your calls cautiously and sensibly. I don’t know if anything can be termed “just” work, as everything a human being involves her or himself with requires different kinds of focus and attention, drains and rewards in its own way, but sex-work is good for me right now. I’m relatively good at it, and it remains engaging as well as profitable. When I reach the point where it tires me to think about it, let alone perform, I’ll be retiring gracefully.

Do you have trust in people? What is your general opinion about humans?

My trust in people is nominal, not because I think most are malicious or out to use others, but because most are hopelessly un-empathetic, self-cantered, obtuse and lazy. Trust is something I consider hard-won, but those I do, I do unreservedly… within reason.

As far as humans go, those clay-formed, divinity-fired pots so full of promise but so easily broken, I don’t know. They make me laugh a lot. They make me weep myself dry, too.

A Moving Target

I was worried that a good friend might have a tumour. He went for an MRI, and we found out that he was fine; but the next day a different friend tested positive after his visit to the Clinic; so it is his life, instead, that has been turned inside out. What a bloody mess.

The world gets rearranged so quickly. He is not very old, my newly positive friend. He is, in fact, quite young; and foolish in the way that the very young are, out in the world on their own recognizance for the first time, getting into trouble and making bad decisions. Confusing distinctions like sex and love. Confusing them, and spinning like a needle at a magnetic pole, as you can; as you do when you can feel your attention being pulled outwards by all the things so worthy of attention, the beautiful things on the horizon. And now he doesn’t know where to look at all. The horizon isn’t where he thought it was. Negative and positive not just words, but actual polarities.

I received a phone call the day he found out. He left a message asking me to call him back. It was just a few words, but you can hear the tone in the voice, something bad enough that it makes your heart skip a beat in panic. I’m a terrible one for returning phone calls in a timely fashion, but I dialled him immediately. “I got some bad news,” he said, and my soul shrunk a little. I collapsed a little inwards as I tried to think.

He (Midway, let’s call him) is the first friend I’m aware of to have been diagnosed during the course of a friendship. It’s hard to know what to say, especially to someone so obviously still assembling their abilities and tools to deal with life and the world. You don’t know what they’ve already thought of, what they’ve sorted out for themselves; and you don’t want to patronize, or drown someone in cliché; but there are also things that you need to say, and things that people need to hear, after a doctor detonates bad news from behind a desk, sitting in a sterile office. This is not the end. Things are not what they were. You’re not going to die today.

But the diagnosis is a fatality. It kills that certain mystery that wanders about, haunts especially the gay man’s life. The spectral question that swings over the consummation of all those sexual fancies, it gets released; and you suddenly know what’s most likely to do you in, in the end. If you ignore the likelihood of buses and trains, or terrorist explosions mid-air, the seal of your death gets stamped on your passport out. It becomes something to hold and look at. Stare at. Something very heavy indeed.

So what do you say? Illness is so arbitrary, so moral-less, that unless you can believe in a vengeful God, there’s nowhere to really point the finger. Everyone can be careful, and take precaution, cover penises in latex -- or every piece of furniture in cellophane, wear Kleenex boxes on your feet -- but you cannot take a hold of all the variables; the microscopic world is beyond our ability to manage. Ultimately, you can only play the odds, imagine the likelihood of running into unfavourable circumstances, and hope for the best. Worse things happen, I could say that. Worse things happen to better people, all the time; and something’s going to kill us all, in the end.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” was what I settled on. “What do you need?”

“Hugs,” Midway said.

It is heavy, whatever it is or turns out to be: skulking tumour, broken part or invisible virus. It’s a dense presence warping the field, drawing the fabric down like that lead marble on the sheet, showing us where all thoughts go; the gravity-well of a designated future. You have to do things differently, now. Every time you think of the future, there is a point you get drawn to, unavoidably. That’s what can ruin a life. If you can’t find a way to accommodate the change, the weight of probable cause can make you lose it. You can fight the fact and lose it.

It was such a sunny day for bad news. Somewhere, someone is cheerful, I thought.

The spectre of the degenerate alphabet had to make it in here sooner or later. I have sat down to write about the stacked letters (stacked in the senses of connotation and fairness; loaded in the sense of how dangerous three characters can be, how three characters can lead to four, and how you are tested on them); yes, been at the computer a few times, and the attempts have not come off well. It’s a morass in there, all the stigmas interlaced with fear and confusion. These are viruses that are identified with morality, and so many self-righteous opinions in the way, secular and non.

You can’t avoid HIV in the sex industry. You have to think about it all the time. You have to worry about it all the time. We are all cautious, or say we are. I only really know what I do, the care I take when I’m working and playing. I go through condoms like water. I use them for friggin’ everything anal – but I’m not obsessive, double bagging or fretting over a little oral-genital contact. My threshold of concern hovers around what I see as the likelihood of infection, from all the things that I’ve read, the advice of my doctor; and I also have an unwillingness to live a life paranoid – I prefer to live it practical. Others have different lines drawn. I worry about the really young ones, those that believe that they don’t have to give it a concern, because it hasn’t touched them yet. They don’t know, and no one has died; and they make some foolish decisions. I’m dumbstruck when some of their ideas fall out of their mouths, the misguided illusions that appear sometimes when you’re both naked, and they just tell you to forget it. I’ve made it a point now to highlight how stupid they’re being.

“You’re going to encounter it, sooner than you’d like to.” And fervently hope that it won’t be you that gets unlucky, that you’ll play the odds, stack them in you favour, and get to walk away with just some stories and a few hickies, not unwanted visitors in the blood. We influence random chance with pragmatism.

Unless you believe in a vengeful God. I sometimes do when I’m sleepless, staring at the irrational labyrinths on the ceiling, and trying and trace a path out of the worst convolutions and dead ends. Those nights, I can’t help but picture Him with a handful of feathered atrocities, carelessly practicing His aim. Throwing darts at the human board.

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.

“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.

Professional Hazards

For the most part, they're courteous, and they understand the rules; but occasionally, there's some fresh fucker who wants it the old fashioned way.

"What do you think you're doing?" I almost yelled, and snapped out of position to turn on him. "That was not just sliding it between."

"Hey, it's just love," he came back with.

I was stupefied by the answer.

Yes, it's just love; it's just bodies; it's just life... fragile, cell-driven life that's only assurance is that it stops, probably some day before any of us want it to; and there are little, cell-driven other lives that would happily speed us to our destination.

"I like flesh on flesh," he expanded.

"We all like flesh on flesh," I returned, "that doesn't mean it's the way to go."

"I'm clean," he pouted.

"I'm sure you are," and I flicked the condom in my hand.

"Just forget it then."

For any of you out there concerned with casual first encounters, work-safety, or dodgy lovers, keep this in mind: doggy-style is best. You actually retain a lot of your control on all fours: escape is easier (remember to twist), and you can be on your feet and out the door in seconds. Never mind the clothes. I learnt this from Sex in History (Tannahill, 1980), which laid out within the first few pages, quite plainly, the fact that humans are one of the few known organisms on the planet which can experience rape, mostly because of the physical positions we have developed to engage in it.

Missionary position, anyone?

 

Darwin never said that evolution was ideal, only that it was appropriate to the environment. I'd like to point out, this is precisely where evolution departs from "intelligent design".

Intelligent fucking design. Don't even get me started.