I've been wondering if getting snipped is a good idea.
Think about it: As a sex-worker, I have intercourse far more often than any normal man would. Even my fellow 20-somethings here in Miami probably don't fuck as much as I do, and that's really saying something. Would having a vasectomy be a wise move to prevent unwanted pregnancy?
I'm religious about using condoms -- every time, all the time, no exceptions. STDs are nothing to laugh about, and even if the risk is lower for a man than it is for a woman, I'm still value my health far too much to fuck without protection.
I get tested regularly, and to date have been clean as a whistle. Still, it's pregnancy that worries me more than catching a disease. The idea of a client being pregnant with my child and possibly raising him/her with another man is unsettling. Of course, the alternative -- abortion -- would have implications for the mother as well, though I'm thoroughly pro-choice.
Assuming I do get snipped, there is always the option of harvesting my sperm in the event that I'd like to have a child in the future. If I remember correctly, the sperm can last somewhere in the area of 10 years before they're no longer good. So, I'd have until the age of 33 to use those sperm. I suppose I could always make another "donation" as well.
As of right now all of this is theory. In fact, I'm unsure whether I could even find a doctor who'd be willing to perform the procedure. Many of them report that guys my age often come back down the road requesting a reversal, which is more complicated than the initial snip.
I have no idea how long I plan on staying in escorting, although my agent told me several times that men have a much longer career expectancy than women. A double-standard, certainly, for a man's "maturity" is often smiled upon, whereas women are often pushed aside for their younger counterparts.
Decision, decisions. Thus far, Rebecca is voting against the snip, saying that I was meant to be a parent. According to her I'll marry later -- perhaps in my late 30s -- and have one or two children after that. She likes to think of herself as a life coach, apparently with psychic abilites as well.
I love living life, taking things as they come, but sometimes I wouldn't mind a crystal ball. Am I destined to stay in escorting for the next 10 years? Next 5? Or will I trade it in for an office job in my field of study, and act as if it never happened?
The latter could happen when the ecnonmy improves, though after working for myself, toiling for "the man" might be a burden. Obviously I'll give up escorting one day, and that's one of the reasons I'm keeping this blog. No matter what, I never want to forget.
Some might think I should be ashamed of being a whore, but I'm not. And as of right now, I wouldn't trade it for any other job out there.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Female Ejaculation
Friday, May 29, 2009
I'm pretty sure it exists.
The first time I got a "squirt" in the face was when I was using a vibrator on a client. She was on a business trip with her husband, staying at one of the four-star resorts in South Beach while he toiled away in the financial district in Downtown Miami.
I could tell she was nervous the minute I walked in the door. The suite was beautiful -- spacious, with warm colors and a full ocean view. She was on the sofa, hands in her lap, barely able to make eye contact with me as I kissed her hello on the cheek.
When we moved to the bedroom, she said she couldn't do penetrative sex. I tried to soothe her as best I could, but before long she handed me a vibrator and asked me to use it on her. She sat on the foot of the bed, legs spread, already wet from the massage I'd given her before.
I entered her slowly, not wanting to overwhelm her. I was kneeling between her legs, shirt and pants folded on the ground so my knees wouldn't get carpet burn. I saw her face begin to flush, and her breathing grew more hitched the more I worked the vibrator.
Now, I actually may have made a mistake in timing her climax, because after I removed the vibrator -- thinking she had already reached an orgasm -- her fluids sprayed me on the face. I leapt back, unsure of what'd just happened. Was it "splash back" from removing the vibrator too quickly? Left over lube that'd been caught in an air pocket?
I excused myself to the bathroom, and splashed some water on my face to clean up. Though I'd been looking forward to sex that afternoon, I could tell the client wasn't ready for another round. She gave me a nice tip, though, so I'd gladly do business with her again.
The minute I arrived home I called Rebecca and told her what happened. She told me about the on-going debate regarding female ejaculation -- whether or not it exists, if it coincides with an orgasm, or whether it's simply a secretion of fluids that have nothing to do with sex.
Well, having those "fluids" secreted on my face was a startling experience, but not exactly unpleasant. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'd taken a liking for it -- to be honest the experience was so brief I couldn't really form an opinion on it one way or another.
Bailey offered nothing more but a twisted grimace and a slew of questions, most of which I couldn't answer. You'd think that after having sex professionally for over a year I'd be as knowledgeable as any gynecologist, but alas...
Even so, that's not to say I can't learn.
The first time I got a "squirt" in the face was when I was using a vibrator on a client. She was on a business trip with her husband, staying at one of the four-star resorts in South Beach while he toiled away in the financial district in Downtown Miami.
I could tell she was nervous the minute I walked in the door. The suite was beautiful -- spacious, with warm colors and a full ocean view. She was on the sofa, hands in her lap, barely able to make eye contact with me as I kissed her hello on the cheek.
When we moved to the bedroom, she said she couldn't do penetrative sex. I tried to soothe her as best I could, but before long she handed me a vibrator and asked me to use it on her. She sat on the foot of the bed, legs spread, already wet from the massage I'd given her before.
I entered her slowly, not wanting to overwhelm her. I was kneeling between her legs, shirt and pants folded on the ground so my knees wouldn't get carpet burn. I saw her face begin to flush, and her breathing grew more hitched the more I worked the vibrator.
Now, I actually may have made a mistake in timing her climax, because after I removed the vibrator -- thinking she had already reached an orgasm -- her fluids sprayed me on the face. I leapt back, unsure of what'd just happened. Was it "splash back" from removing the vibrator too quickly? Left over lube that'd been caught in an air pocket?
I excused myself to the bathroom, and splashed some water on my face to clean up. Though I'd been looking forward to sex that afternoon, I could tell the client wasn't ready for another round. She gave me a nice tip, though, so I'd gladly do business with her again.
The minute I arrived home I called Rebecca and told her what happened. She told me about the on-going debate regarding female ejaculation -- whether or not it exists, if it coincides with an orgasm, or whether it's simply a secretion of fluids that have nothing to do with sex.
Well, having those "fluids" secreted on my face was a startling experience, but not exactly unpleasant. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'd taken a liking for it -- to be honest the experience was so brief I couldn't really form an opinion on it one way or another.
Bailey offered nothing more but a twisted grimace and a slew of questions, most of which I couldn't answer. You'd think that after having sex professionally for over a year I'd be as knowledgeable as any gynecologist, but alas...
Even so, that's not to say I can't learn.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Fists of Fury
Thursday, May 28, 2009
"I want you to fist me," she said. "Can you do that?"
Fisting isn't something I do often in my personal life. In fact, I've only done it once. Still, I told the client it was no problem, and that I would just need plenty of lube and a little bit of time.
I started out with my fingers, working them back and forth, expanding them ever so gently. I'm not sure how long it all took, but eventually I was able to tuck my thumb between my middle and index finger and begin to make something that resembled a fist inside of her.
"Is that okay?" I asked, unsure how I was doing.
"Yes," she answered. "Keep going -- you're still not there yet."
It's always nice to have some direction, particularly when I have my hand inside a woman's pussy. How exactly she derived pleasure from this I do not know. Was I somehow stimulating her clitoris? Or was it the G-spot that's normally stimulated during vaginal sex?
"If I start to hurt you, just tell me and I'll stop."
"You're fine..." she said breathlessly. "Yes, right... THERE!"
Her face flushed red as she threw her head back and let out a cry. Sweat clung to her brow. She clutched her breasts, pinching the nipples as I continued. After a few minutes she came, and when I withdrew my fist from inside of her it was wet -- glistening, even.
The smell was strong but not unpleasant. I went into the bathroom and washed off, then began to dress. I'd stripped down to my underwear, but never got completely naked. In fact, she and I didn't even have sex. Had I known that, I wouldn't have run to Rite Aid at the last minute to pick up a new box of Trojans.
"Thanks," I said, on my way out. "If you'd like to see me again, just call my agent."
"Uh-huh," she said, suddenly uninterested. "Drive safe."
Escorting is certainly a strange career. Moments before I'd just had my hand inside this woman's pussy, and now she hardly looks me in the eye. Was she ashamed of paying for sex? Upset that her husband couldn't fist her and she had to hire out?
Then again, I suppose I shouldn't complain. I got paid for something that took less than an hour. I just hope the smell doesn't linger in the days to come...
Fisting isn't something I do often in my personal life. In fact, I've only done it once. Still, I told the client it was no problem, and that I would just need plenty of lube and a little bit of time.
I started out with my fingers, working them back and forth, expanding them ever so gently. I'm not sure how long it all took, but eventually I was able to tuck my thumb between my middle and index finger and begin to make something that resembled a fist inside of her.
"Is that okay?" I asked, unsure how I was doing.
"Yes," she answered. "Keep going -- you're still not there yet."
It's always nice to have some direction, particularly when I have my hand inside a woman's pussy. How exactly she derived pleasure from this I do not know. Was I somehow stimulating her clitoris? Or was it the G-spot that's normally stimulated during vaginal sex?
"If I start to hurt you, just tell me and I'll stop."
"You're fine..." she said breathlessly. "Yes, right... THERE!"
Her face flushed red as she threw her head back and let out a cry. Sweat clung to her brow. She clutched her breasts, pinching the nipples as I continued. After a few minutes she came, and when I withdrew my fist from inside of her it was wet -- glistening, even.
The smell was strong but not unpleasant. I went into the bathroom and washed off, then began to dress. I'd stripped down to my underwear, but never got completely naked. In fact, she and I didn't even have sex. Had I known that, I wouldn't have run to Rite Aid at the last minute to pick up a new box of Trojans.
"Thanks," I said, on my way out. "If you'd like to see me again, just call my agent."
"Uh-huh," she said, suddenly uninterested. "Drive safe."
Escorting is certainly a strange career. Moments before I'd just had my hand inside this woman's pussy, and now she hardly looks me in the eye. Was she ashamed of paying for sex? Upset that her husband couldn't fist her and she had to hire out?
Then again, I suppose I shouldn't complain. I got paid for something that took less than an hour. I just hope the smell doesn't linger in the days to come...
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
"You know what would be hot...?"
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
So Bailey is starting to date again.
He didn't think he was ready, but after a bit of cajoling he agreed to get back in the game. Instead of going to the bar or the club to find a new lady, he decided to invite a female friend over for dinner. There had been some sexual tension between them for awhile -- much to the chagrin of Bailey's ex-girlfriend, who had some major jealousy issues.
I was happy for him. However, I never expected him to request my presence at the dinner.
"She thinks you're smart and funny," he'd said. "It'll be an easy way to break the ice if you're there."
"Break the ice? But... she's already your friend. It's not like she's a stranger."
"Okay, then I just want you there because I'm a fucking chicken. Happy?"
I smiled. "Just tell me when and where."
Bailey is an amazing cook, so it came as no surprise that he had the dinner at his place. I arrived a little bit late -- on purpose -- along with a bottle of wine and some dessert. After eating, we settled on the sofa to watch a DVD. I picked Cruel Intentions with Ryan Phillipe, Reese Witherspoon and Sarah Michelle Gellar, as it's one of my favorite films.
The scene where Sarah Michelle Gellar's Kathryn and Selma Blair's Cecile start making out in Central Park was one of the hottest scenes in the late 1990s. Bailey especially appreciated it (he's a fan of girl-girl action), but never thought that his friend would have some same-sex fantasies as well.
However, they weren't what he was expecting.
"You like that, huh?" she said, elbowing Bailey in the ribs. "I never knew that."
"They're both hot," he replied. "But not as hot as Sarah Michelle Gellar and Eliza Dushku making out would have been. Those two were fucking sexy."
"Well, you know what I think would have been hot? If you made out with Julian."
I hiccuped on my second Smirnoff Ice as the words left her mouth. Bailey looked at her with a twisted grin, until he realized she speaking truthfully. I've known a few girls that found guy-guy action to be a turn on, but never expected to find someone so bold in their fetishes.
Bailey is pretty gay-friendly, but soon his face turned red and he let his friend/love-interest know that it wasn't going to happen. I lay back on the loveseat next to the sofa, chuckling a bit as I realized just how fazed Bailey had become.
"He doesn't let me kiss him with other people around," I said, hoping humour would lighten the mood. "He prefers to keep it a secret."
"Really now?" she said. "Why's that?"
"Because he's a very good fuck and I don't want anyone else to have him," Bailey added. "So hands off."
After finishing the movie, I bid them adieu and headed back to my place. The next day I would discover that Bailey and the date ended up having sex that night, though I'm still not sure if they've agreed to start a relationship. In any case, I'm just glad Bailey seems to be happy again, even if the thought of kissing me was enough to make his blood run cold.
I didn't take it personally. I have enough satisfied clients to know that I'm desirable and in-demand.
He didn't think he was ready, but after a bit of cajoling he agreed to get back in the game. Instead of going to the bar or the club to find a new lady, he decided to invite a female friend over for dinner. There had been some sexual tension between them for awhile -- much to the chagrin of Bailey's ex-girlfriend, who had some major jealousy issues.
I was happy for him. However, I never expected him to request my presence at the dinner.
"She thinks you're smart and funny," he'd said. "It'll be an easy way to break the ice if you're there."
"Break the ice? But... she's already your friend. It's not like she's a stranger."
"Okay, then I just want you there because I'm a fucking chicken. Happy?"
I smiled. "Just tell me when and where."
Bailey is an amazing cook, so it came as no surprise that he had the dinner at his place. I arrived a little bit late -- on purpose -- along with a bottle of wine and some dessert. After eating, we settled on the sofa to watch a DVD. I picked Cruel Intentions with Ryan Phillipe, Reese Witherspoon and Sarah Michelle Gellar, as it's one of my favorite films.
The scene where Sarah Michelle Gellar's Kathryn and Selma Blair's Cecile start making out in Central Park was one of the hottest scenes in the late 1990s. Bailey especially appreciated it (he's a fan of girl-girl action), but never thought that his friend would have some same-sex fantasies as well.
However, they weren't what he was expecting.
"You like that, huh?" she said, elbowing Bailey in the ribs. "I never knew that."
"They're both hot," he replied. "But not as hot as Sarah Michelle Gellar and Eliza Dushku making out would have been. Those two were fucking sexy."
"Well, you know what I think would have been hot? If you made out with Julian."
I hiccuped on my second Smirnoff Ice as the words left her mouth. Bailey looked at her with a twisted grin, until he realized she speaking truthfully. I've known a few girls that found guy-guy action to be a turn on, but never expected to find someone so bold in their fetishes.
Bailey is pretty gay-friendly, but soon his face turned red and he let his friend/love-interest know that it wasn't going to happen. I lay back on the loveseat next to the sofa, chuckling a bit as I realized just how fazed Bailey had become.
"He doesn't let me kiss him with other people around," I said, hoping humour would lighten the mood. "He prefers to keep it a secret."
"Really now?" she said. "Why's that?"
"Because he's a very good fuck and I don't want anyone else to have him," Bailey added. "So hands off."
After finishing the movie, I bid them adieu and headed back to my place. The next day I would discover that Bailey and the date ended up having sex that night, though I'm still not sure if they've agreed to start a relationship. In any case, I'm just glad Bailey seems to be happy again, even if the thought of kissing me was enough to make his blood run cold.
I didn't take it personally. I have enough satisfied clients to know that I'm desirable and in-demand.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Man About Town: The High School Years
Monday, May 25, 2009
No, I wasn't whoring myself as a teenager.
I do, however, remember a time when one of the faculty members at my old high school got a bit too close for comfort. He had a reputation for being a bit too touchy-feely with students, but thanks to tenure he would literally have to assault someone in front of the principle to be disciplined for it.
I was in boys' locker room after school, making up a missed gym class when I heard someone approaching. Figuring it was another student or perhaps an instructor, I didn't think anything of it. However, it was him -- the teacher I'll refer to as Mr. X.
"Hey," he said to me. "Looked like you worked up a sweat."
"Yeah, looks like." You probably would like a sweaty teenager at your disposal.
"I don't usually see you here after school. Usually you're out the door right at 2:45 like the rest of them."
"I had to make up a gym class. Guess that's the price I pay for taking a day off to go to New York City."
"New York? What's there?"
"Friends; colleges; good food. The usual."
I could already see him inching closer -- particularly after I stripped off my shirt and shorts, leaving me clad in nothing but a pair of boxers. Not the smartest move on my behalf, true, but I wasn't about to let that idiot scare me into walking home in sweat-drenched clothes.
"So... are you thinking of going to college in New York, then?"
"Either there or Florida," I replied. "We'll see how things turn out."
"You'll do well wherever you go. You're one of the... smarter kids I've taught in the last few years."
"I doubt that, but thanks anyway."
"Modesty," he said. "A good trait to have."
I slipped on my sweatshirt and jeans, then sat down on a bench to lace up my shoes. I could have left right then and there -- but what fun would that have been? Even in my high school years I had a bit of a devil inside of me. And if anyone deserved to be toyed with...
"I'd trade it in for a massive cock."
Mr. X dropped his bag as soon as I said the word cock.
"I'm not saying I'm dissatisfied with my size now, but let's be honest, sometimes bigger is better."
"I... Well, that's... You know---"
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?"
"No, it's just that---"
"Because the way I hear it, you happen to like teenagers. And I don't mean in that healthy, 'I-want-to-see-them-succeed' kind of way."
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Don't play dumb with me, all right? The minute my clothes came off you lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. If you want to gawk at underage ass I suggest you be a bit more discreet."
I got up to leave when he called me back, then barraged me with a series of accusations, how speaking out of tone to a staff member was an "infraction" that could be made known to college recruiters. I listened, smiling as I thought of the best way to put him in his place.
"Well look at you," I said. "I never figured you for a top, but the way you're talking now..." I let my voice trail off as Mr. X's face grew progressively more red. Knowing I needed something to scare him off for good, I decided that a little white lie couldn't hurt.
"I'm telling you this for your own good," I continued. "Look, I have a family member at the FBI. He lives in Virginia and commutes to D.C. on the train. All I can say now is that this school is under investigation."
"Investigation? What are you talking about?"
"You've seen the drugs that go through this place. Marijuana is one thing, but prescription drug sales are another. It's been happening all over upper middle-class suburbs the last few years. The feds are watching, and eventually they'll make a bust."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"Because it would be nothing for them to look into your conduct as well. Like why you were removed as head coach for the boys' soccer team last year. So let's be clear on one thing -- gawk as much as you like at other kids, but leave me out of your fantasies."
Mr. X was silent. I smirked, turned my back, and walked out the door.
* * *
Last I heard, Mr. X was let go. I don't know what for exactly, but it was a long time coming. I still think of him sometimes, mostly when I'm watching Law & Order: SVU, especially when Benson and Stabler and looking into a crime that happened at a school.
Some might think my encounter with Mr. X would be damaging, but I disagree. If anything, it showed me what inappropriate conduct was at a young age. What I do for a living isn't exploiting anyone, and I would never allow myself to be exploited and/or disrespected either.
So, maybe high school wasn't a waste of time after all. Who says kids don't learn anything these days?
I do, however, remember a time when one of the faculty members at my old high school got a bit too close for comfort. He had a reputation for being a bit too touchy-feely with students, but thanks to tenure he would literally have to assault someone in front of the principle to be disciplined for it.
I was in boys' locker room after school, making up a missed gym class when I heard someone approaching. Figuring it was another student or perhaps an instructor, I didn't think anything of it. However, it was him -- the teacher I'll refer to as Mr. X.
"Hey," he said to me. "Looked like you worked up a sweat."
"Yeah, looks like." You probably would like a sweaty teenager at your disposal.
"I don't usually see you here after school. Usually you're out the door right at 2:45 like the rest of them."
"I had to make up a gym class. Guess that's the price I pay for taking a day off to go to New York City."
"New York? What's there?"
"Friends; colleges; good food. The usual."
I could already see him inching closer -- particularly after I stripped off my shirt and shorts, leaving me clad in nothing but a pair of boxers. Not the smartest move on my behalf, true, but I wasn't about to let that idiot scare me into walking home in sweat-drenched clothes.
"So... are you thinking of going to college in New York, then?"
"Either there or Florida," I replied. "We'll see how things turn out."
"You'll do well wherever you go. You're one of the... smarter kids I've taught in the last few years."
"I doubt that, but thanks anyway."
"Modesty," he said. "A good trait to have."
I slipped on my sweatshirt and jeans, then sat down on a bench to lace up my shoes. I could have left right then and there -- but what fun would that have been? Even in my high school years I had a bit of a devil inside of me. And if anyone deserved to be toyed with...
"I'd trade it in for a massive cock."
Mr. X dropped his bag as soon as I said the word cock.
"I'm not saying I'm dissatisfied with my size now, but let's be honest, sometimes bigger is better."
"I... Well, that's... You know---"
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?"
"No, it's just that---"
"Because the way I hear it, you happen to like teenagers. And I don't mean in that healthy, 'I-want-to-see-them-succeed' kind of way."
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Don't play dumb with me, all right? The minute my clothes came off you lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. If you want to gawk at underage ass I suggest you be a bit more discreet."
I got up to leave when he called me back, then barraged me with a series of accusations, how speaking out of tone to a staff member was an "infraction" that could be made known to college recruiters. I listened, smiling as I thought of the best way to put him in his place.
"Well look at you," I said. "I never figured you for a top, but the way you're talking now..." I let my voice trail off as Mr. X's face grew progressively more red. Knowing I needed something to scare him off for good, I decided that a little white lie couldn't hurt.
"I'm telling you this for your own good," I continued. "Look, I have a family member at the FBI. He lives in Virginia and commutes to D.C. on the train. All I can say now is that this school is under investigation."
"Investigation? What are you talking about?"
"You've seen the drugs that go through this place. Marijuana is one thing, but prescription drug sales are another. It's been happening all over upper middle-class suburbs the last few years. The feds are watching, and eventually they'll make a bust."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"Because it would be nothing for them to look into your conduct as well. Like why you were removed as head coach for the boys' soccer team last year. So let's be clear on one thing -- gawk as much as you like at other kids, but leave me out of your fantasies."
Mr. X was silent. I smirked, turned my back, and walked out the door.
* * *
Last I heard, Mr. X was let go. I don't know what for exactly, but it was a long time coming. I still think of him sometimes, mostly when I'm watching Law & Order: SVU, especially when Benson and Stabler and looking into a crime that happened at a school.
Some might think my encounter with Mr. X would be damaging, but I disagree. If anything, it showed me what inappropriate conduct was at a young age. What I do for a living isn't exploiting anyone, and I would never allow myself to be exploited and/or disrespected either.
So, maybe high school wasn't a waste of time after all. Who says kids don't learn anything these days?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Holiday Weekend
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Not much in the way of escorting this weekend, mostly due to the holiday. Memorial Day is one of those holidays where people get together with friends and/or family for barbecues and other such festivities. There's no room at the table for a whore, thankfully. I haven't had a free weekend in ages.
Rebecca and I met for a late lunch, early dinner type meal. No sooner did I order a Mike's Hard Lemonade did she begin talking shop.
"I had a client the other day," she said, "he wanted me to..."
"What?"
She pointed to my Hard Lemonade and let me fill in the blank. I've heard of men who like getting pissed on before, but never thought of whether or not Rebecca had to fulfill such a request.
"So how do you go about it?" I asked. "Stop by Publix and get a few bottles of water, then...?"
"Pretty much. I like Evian the best. Expensive as hell, but tasty."
"Do you still do it after he gets his little shower?"
"Before the shower, if he wants sex at all. Sometimes he's satisfied with being tinkled on."
I chuckled at Rebecca's use of the word "tinkle" as our appetizer came. Is there anything better than calamari with red sauce? I could eat it everyday -- bad news, considering it's fried and not very healthy.
"I'm thinking of taking a vacation this summer," Rebecca said. "Preferrably somewhere cool; somewhere I've never been before."
"I've heard Seattle is nice during the summer time."
"That could work, or even Vancouver. Is there any differnece betwen the two?"
"Not sure," I said, "but considering Vancouver is in Canada I'm sure the people are more polite."
"I'll keep you posted. You should come with, come to think of it. You're way better at navigating cities than I am."
Rebecca always said that she appreciated "masculine skills", such as reading a map or figuring out a public transport system. Being from the northeast, I suppose those skills just come more naturally to me. In any event, visiting the Pacific Northwest with Rebecca was very appealing.
"Do you ever think it's odd that we've stayed friends?" I asked.
"No, not at all. Why do you ask?"
"Most guys don't stay friends with their ex-girlfriends."
"You've never been like most guys -- thank God."
I've heard that a lot the past few years, especially when I was still at college. Most guys, as I'm told, are assholes. And yet women still keep putting up with them...
Then again, maybe that's why they end up coming to me. They might marry an asshole, but when it comes to paying for companionship, they expect to be treated well.
"You alive in there?" Rebecca asked.
"Yeah, sorry. You ready to order? I'm getting the salmon steak..."
Rebecca and I met for a late lunch, early dinner type meal. No sooner did I order a Mike's Hard Lemonade did she begin talking shop.
"I had a client the other day," she said, "he wanted me to..."
"What?"
She pointed to my Hard Lemonade and let me fill in the blank. I've heard of men who like getting pissed on before, but never thought of whether or not Rebecca had to fulfill such a request.
"So how do you go about it?" I asked. "Stop by Publix and get a few bottles of water, then...?"
"Pretty much. I like Evian the best. Expensive as hell, but tasty."
"Do you still do it after he gets his little shower?"
"Before the shower, if he wants sex at all. Sometimes he's satisfied with being tinkled on."
I chuckled at Rebecca's use of the word "tinkle" as our appetizer came. Is there anything better than calamari with red sauce? I could eat it everyday -- bad news, considering it's fried and not very healthy.
"I'm thinking of taking a vacation this summer," Rebecca said. "Preferrably somewhere cool; somewhere I've never been before."
"I've heard Seattle is nice during the summer time."
"That could work, or even Vancouver. Is there any differnece betwen the two?"
"Not sure," I said, "but considering Vancouver is in Canada I'm sure the people are more polite."
"I'll keep you posted. You should come with, come to think of it. You're way better at navigating cities than I am."
Rebecca always said that she appreciated "masculine skills", such as reading a map or figuring out a public transport system. Being from the northeast, I suppose those skills just come more naturally to me. In any event, visiting the Pacific Northwest with Rebecca was very appealing.
"Do you ever think it's odd that we've stayed friends?" I asked.
"No, not at all. Why do you ask?"
"Most guys don't stay friends with their ex-girlfriends."
"You've never been like most guys -- thank God."
I've heard that a lot the past few years, especially when I was still at college. Most guys, as I'm told, are assholes. And yet women still keep putting up with them...
Then again, maybe that's why they end up coming to me. They might marry an asshole, but when it comes to paying for companionship, they expect to be treated well.
"You alive in there?" Rebecca asked.
"Yeah, sorry. You ready to order? I'm getting the salmon steak..."
Friday, May 22, 2009
The One That Got Away
Friday, May 22, 2009
Once again, I'm up past 2 a.m.
Another night; another thunderstorm; another period of introspection. For some reason, I'm thinking of a certain girl from my college days, one that got away.
Well, let me rephrase that: she wouldn't leave her boyfriend for me.
Selfish, I know. Why did I think she would be willing to do it? The fact that I had feelings for her -- feelings that developed slowly, over the period of several years -- is no reason for her to dump her man and make me a replacement.
We were close -- as close as friends can be without it crossing the line. I dropped hints, made flirtatious conversation, even said "I think you're beautiful" on several occasions. She'd smile, blush, thank me for being "sweet." Still, she'd be careful to mention her boyfriend as we continued, saying how she looked forward to seeing him when he arrived in town.
For the record, I think the guy's a loser. A big, ugly, drug-using loser. In fact, I think he may even be involved in the drug trade one way or another; he certainly smokes enough marijuana to be considered an aficionado of the stuff. As the saying goes, do what you love, and if that's peddling the green stuff...
(Yes, I know it's completely hypocritical of me to criticize someone for being involved in an illegal industry, but drugs destroy lives and promote all sorts of things like human trafficking and gang violence. As far as I'm concerned, they're a far greater evil than I'll ever be.)
She's gone now, having left Florida after we graduated. We keep in touch via webcam, e-mail and Facebook messages. I miss her crystal blue eyes; twirling her silky hair between my fingers; the smell of her perfume; the way she would melt into me when I rubbed her shoulders.
It's amazing that I still think about her so often. Rebecca, in her infinite wisdom, says that anyone who would date such a loser is undeserving of my attention. Maybe she's right -- but then again, friends are often known to sugar-coat the truth in order to spare feelings.
What irks me more than anything is the fact that whenever I pine over her, I embody a cliche: that of a whore who can't find "real love".
She doesn't know what I do. I'm not sure if I'd ever tell her, because in spite of her rejection I still fear that it would take too great an emotional toll of her. She's quite a mother-hen, to the point that whenever a friend is sick, she was known to arrive with chicken soup.
Was I simply too timid in my pursuit of her? Should I have just taken her like men do in the movies, shoved her against a wall and kissed her like an astroid was about to hit the Earth and kill us all? Could she have not given me one fucking chance to prove that I'm twice the man that her boyfriend will ever be?
Whew -- I need to settle down, because if I get too worked up I'll be up until dawn. Disappointed as I am over how our relationship failed to go to the next level, I still value her friendship, and all the great memories we shared.
Christ. I'm still love-sick, aren't I?
Another night; another thunderstorm; another period of introspection. For some reason, I'm thinking of a certain girl from my college days, one that got away.
Well, let me rephrase that: she wouldn't leave her boyfriend for me.
Selfish, I know. Why did I think she would be willing to do it? The fact that I had feelings for her -- feelings that developed slowly, over the period of several years -- is no reason for her to dump her man and make me a replacement.
We were close -- as close as friends can be without it crossing the line. I dropped hints, made flirtatious conversation, even said "I think you're beautiful" on several occasions. She'd smile, blush, thank me for being "sweet." Still, she'd be careful to mention her boyfriend as we continued, saying how she looked forward to seeing him when he arrived in town.
For the record, I think the guy's a loser. A big, ugly, drug-using loser. In fact, I think he may even be involved in the drug trade one way or another; he certainly smokes enough marijuana to be considered an aficionado of the stuff. As the saying goes, do what you love, and if that's peddling the green stuff...
(Yes, I know it's completely hypocritical of me to criticize someone for being involved in an illegal industry, but drugs destroy lives and promote all sorts of things like human trafficking and gang violence. As far as I'm concerned, they're a far greater evil than I'll ever be.)
She's gone now, having left Florida after we graduated. We keep in touch via webcam, e-mail and Facebook messages. I miss her crystal blue eyes; twirling her silky hair between my fingers; the smell of her perfume; the way she would melt into me when I rubbed her shoulders.
It's amazing that I still think about her so often. Rebecca, in her infinite wisdom, says that anyone who would date such a loser is undeserving of my attention. Maybe she's right -- but then again, friends are often known to sugar-coat the truth in order to spare feelings.
What irks me more than anything is the fact that whenever I pine over her, I embody a cliche: that of a whore who can't find "real love".
She doesn't know what I do. I'm not sure if I'd ever tell her, because in spite of her rejection I still fear that it would take too great an emotional toll of her. She's quite a mother-hen, to the point that whenever a friend is sick, she was known to arrive with chicken soup.
Was I simply too timid in my pursuit of her? Should I have just taken her like men do in the movies, shoved her against a wall and kissed her like an astroid was about to hit the Earth and kill us all? Could she have not given me one fucking chance to prove that I'm twice the man that her boyfriend will ever be?
Whew -- I need to settle down, because if I get too worked up I'll be up until dawn. Disappointed as I am over how our relationship failed to go to the next level, I still value her friendship, and all the great memories we shared.
Christ. I'm still love-sick, aren't I?
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Three is a Magic Number
Thursday, May 21, 2009
There's a first time for everything -- even in escorting.
I arrive at the client's home to see that another escort is already there. I'd met him before -- his name is Adam, and the last I heard he was with another agency in Miami. I learned that the client had a fantasy of double-penetration, and as such, hired two men to do the job.
Better than having me join in with her husband, but still...
After a bit of chit-chat and a few glasses of wine, we get down to it. I lay flat on my back, penetrating the client vaginally, while Adam takes her from behind. It was a bit awkward, though I did my best to just focus on the client's face as a way to see if she was enjoying herself.
"Everything all right?" I asked.
"Mmm... Ohh... Yes..." she answered.
Adam glanced over the back of her shoulder and gave me a smirk, pleased that the two of us were doing a good job. The client came fairly quickly, and Adam slid out of her first, after which she slid off my body and draped herself over my chest.
We lay in bed -- one gigolo on each side of the client -- listening to the rain pelt the roof of the house. It was a relaxing moment, to the point where I had to fight off falling asleep. Adam gave me a light smack on the arm as I drifted off, and soon the two of us hailed a can together back to our apartments (we live in the same neighborhood).
"So, was this your first time in bed with another man?" he teased.
"As a matter of fact, it was," I replied, seeing that the cabbie either didnt' speak English or just didn't care. "I'd ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer."
Adam laughed. The fact that he was a gay man having sex with women for a living might sound a bit odd, but in a lot of ways it made perfect sense. He would never run the risk of becoming attached, and he knew how to treat women well.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Sure."
"Are you seeing anyone right now? Outside of work, that is?"
"No, no one in particular. You?"
"Same. I don't think anyone in our line of work really is."
"If I didn't know any better I'd swear you were asking me on a date," Adam quipped.
"Very funny."
"I thought so. Anyway, I always thought you and Rebecca would end up together."
"That shipped sailed a long time ago," I said. "Not that I wouldn't try again, but..." I trailed off, realizing I'd just said that I would be willing to give me relationship with Rebecca another try if... well... I don't know what, exactly. Still, the revelation caught me off guard; I thought I was "over" her.
"I guess that means the both of you would have to quit," Adam said. "Maybe then it could work out, you know?"
"Yeah, maybe..."
I arrive at the client's home to see that another escort is already there. I'd met him before -- his name is Adam, and the last I heard he was with another agency in Miami. I learned that the client had a fantasy of double-penetration, and as such, hired two men to do the job.
Better than having me join in with her husband, but still...
After a bit of chit-chat and a few glasses of wine, we get down to it. I lay flat on my back, penetrating the client vaginally, while Adam takes her from behind. It was a bit awkward, though I did my best to just focus on the client's face as a way to see if she was enjoying herself.
"Everything all right?" I asked.
"Mmm... Ohh... Yes..." she answered.
Adam glanced over the back of her shoulder and gave me a smirk, pleased that the two of us were doing a good job. The client came fairly quickly, and Adam slid out of her first, after which she slid off my body and draped herself over my chest.
We lay in bed -- one gigolo on each side of the client -- listening to the rain pelt the roof of the house. It was a relaxing moment, to the point where I had to fight off falling asleep. Adam gave me a light smack on the arm as I drifted off, and soon the two of us hailed a can together back to our apartments (we live in the same neighborhood).
"So, was this your first time in bed with another man?" he teased.
"As a matter of fact, it was," I replied, seeing that the cabbie either didnt' speak English or just didn't care. "I'd ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer."
Adam laughed. The fact that he was a gay man having sex with women for a living might sound a bit odd, but in a lot of ways it made perfect sense. He would never run the risk of becoming attached, and he knew how to treat women well.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Sure."
"Are you seeing anyone right now? Outside of work, that is?"
"No, no one in particular. You?"
"Same. I don't think anyone in our line of work really is."
"If I didn't know any better I'd swear you were asking me on a date," Adam quipped.
"Very funny."
"I thought so. Anyway, I always thought you and Rebecca would end up together."
"That shipped sailed a long time ago," I said. "Not that I wouldn't try again, but..." I trailed off, realizing I'd just said that I would be willing to give me relationship with Rebecca another try if... well... I don't know what, exactly. Still, the revelation caught me off guard; I thought I was "over" her.
"I guess that means the both of you would have to quit," Adam said. "Maybe then it could work out, you know?"
"Yeah, maybe..."
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Rainy Days
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The rain season has officially begun here in South Florida, with morning and afternoon thunderstorms replenishing the dry, thirsty earth. After months of sunshine and blue skies, I find the rain to be a nice change of scenery, as well as an added boost to my career.
I got the call this morning at 11 a.m. My agent told me that there was a client who requested an afternoon booking, preferably at 1 p.m. I accepted it, and began rummaging through my closet to find my black slacks and a dress shirt.
"Oh, and bring your massage oils," my agent added. "Sounds like she needs a good rubdown."
"No problem. That's what I'm here for."
"Rubdowns and sex with women?"
"Absolutely. It beats selling jeans at the GAP."
I got the call this morning at 11 a.m. My agent told me that there was a client who requested an afternoon booking, preferably at 1 p.m. I accepted it, and began rummaging through my closet to find my black slacks and a dress shirt.
"Oh, and bring your massage oils," my agent added. "Sounds like she needs a good rubdown."
"No problem. That's what I'm here for."
"Rubdowns and sex with women?"
"Absolutely. It beats selling jeans at the GAP."
* * *
The client led me into a spare bedroom, complete with massage table surrounded by votive candles, all of them flickering in their red holders. It almost reminded me of a Catholic Church, which made me feel a little uncomfortable until I remembered that I'd never been baptized.
She lay down on the table and waited for me to get to work. I slipped off my shoes and then stripped down to my boxers, knowing it'd be easier to just get my clothes off now than to fumble with them later.
I smoothed my hands over her back, then began kneading her shoulders and scalp. She softened beneath my touch, voicing her content and soft moans. So far, so good, but how long did she want this to continue?
She rolled over on her back and guided my hands over her breasts. I cradled them over her shirt, and soon lifted the garment over her head and started touching her bare skin, watching as she closed her eyes as I continued.
I'll cut to the chase -- soon she was naked and my hands were everywhere. I took out the oil I brought along with and poured it on her body, apologizing for the cool temperature but telling her it would warm up. Before long her skin was glistening and I had my tongue between her legs.
"Higher," she said. "Yeah, higher, there..."
Women often gave me directions, something they don't normally do. With her assistance i could give her much better oral sex than if I was working alone. Sucking her clit, I was careful not too be too rough not too gentle. The whole thing lasted about a half hour; when it comes to oral sex, women like men to take their time.
She came with a shudder and gently guided me face away from her pussy. I blotted my mouth with a tissue nearby, then wiped the sweat from my forehead. The client laid on the table for a little while before she got up and took me into another room with a big, king-sized bed ready.
After rolling on a condom we got to it, though I'll admit I didn't last long. She seemed satisfied, however, probably because I'd already gave her an orgasm with my tongue. As long as the client comes once, I know I've done my job.
As I waited for the taxi in the living room, I noticed the family portrait on the wall. Both kids looked like their mother, and their father looked like the kind of guy who got married because it was expected of him. No way would he reach senior partner at the law firm or investment bank without the requisite wife and kids.
Perhaps he's cheated on her as well; perhaps he's actually been faithful and his wife is the "bad" one. As for me, well, I'm just the hired help. But as I stepped into the cab and watched the rain pelt against the passenger window, I couldn't help but wonder if I was keeping marriages together, or tearing them apart.
She lay down on the table and waited for me to get to work. I slipped off my shoes and then stripped down to my boxers, knowing it'd be easier to just get my clothes off now than to fumble with them later.
I smoothed my hands over her back, then began kneading her shoulders and scalp. She softened beneath my touch, voicing her content and soft moans. So far, so good, but how long did she want this to continue?
She rolled over on her back and guided my hands over her breasts. I cradled them over her shirt, and soon lifted the garment over her head and started touching her bare skin, watching as she closed her eyes as I continued.
I'll cut to the chase -- soon she was naked and my hands were everywhere. I took out the oil I brought along with and poured it on her body, apologizing for the cool temperature but telling her it would warm up. Before long her skin was glistening and I had my tongue between her legs.
"Higher," she said. "Yeah, higher, there..."
Women often gave me directions, something they don't normally do. With her assistance i could give her much better oral sex than if I was working alone. Sucking her clit, I was careful not too be too rough not too gentle. The whole thing lasted about a half hour; when it comes to oral sex, women like men to take their time.
She came with a shudder and gently guided me face away from her pussy. I blotted my mouth with a tissue nearby, then wiped the sweat from my forehead. The client laid on the table for a little while before she got up and took me into another room with a big, king-sized bed ready.
After rolling on a condom we got to it, though I'll admit I didn't last long. She seemed satisfied, however, probably because I'd already gave her an orgasm with my tongue. As long as the client comes once, I know I've done my job.
As I waited for the taxi in the living room, I noticed the family portrait on the wall. Both kids looked like their mother, and their father looked like the kind of guy who got married because it was expected of him. No way would he reach senior partner at the law firm or investment bank without the requisite wife and kids.
Perhaps he's cheated on her as well; perhaps he's actually been faithful and his wife is the "bad" one. As for me, well, I'm just the hired help. But as I stepped into the cab and watched the rain pelt against the passenger window, I couldn't help but wonder if I was keeping marriages together, or tearing them apart.
Race in Escorting
This is probably one of the more controversial posts I'll ever make.
In the year I've been escorting, a majority of my clients have been either Caucasian or Hispanic. That's just the way it is in Miami, especially in the neighborhoods that my agent sends me to. Be it Coral Gables or Pinecrest, Bay Point or the upscale parts of Coconut Grove, the ethnic makeup is fairly similar across the board.
Would I ever see an African-American or an Asian American woman? Absolutely. I've dated women from these backgrounds before and found them just as wonderful as the ones I see at work.
However, that's not the case with everyone. Today, I heard of a woman flat-out refusing to see an African-American man. No way, no how was she taking his money. He could offer her double, she said, it didn't matter. Just send someone else.
I don't know why I was surprised to see racism rear its ugly head in escorting. After all, it's present in virtually every other part of life -- from job interviews to loan applications, traffic stops and shopping excursions. Escorting certainly isn't a bubble.In fact, one might argue that escorting can serve as a microcosm of the outside world.
All of these preferences and prejudices we have in America are almost magnified in the world of sex-work, where whims and desires are indulged on a regular basis. If someone doesn't like members of one ethnicity, well, they certainly aren't going to deal with them in such an intimate situation if possible.
Another girl took the booking, of course. My agent hardly batted an eyelash at the little hiccup, but later asked me if I had any similar preferences.
"If a black woman were to request a booking, would you take it?" she said.
"Sure. I don't know why _______ had an issue with it. Her loss."
"You're so much easier than the girls, Julian. If men earned as much money as women could, I'd set up an all-male group and never look back."
Later at the gym I thought about if there was any reason I would refuse to see a client. It certainly wouldn't have anything to do with race, but I did have a few deal-breakers. Under no circumstance will I not use a condom, nor will I have group sex with people I don't know.
All of these things have to do with character, not color, because to me that's what matters most.
In the year I've been escorting, a majority of my clients have been either Caucasian or Hispanic. That's just the way it is in Miami, especially in the neighborhoods that my agent sends me to. Be it Coral Gables or Pinecrest, Bay Point or the upscale parts of Coconut Grove, the ethnic makeup is fairly similar across the board.
Would I ever see an African-American or an Asian American woman? Absolutely. I've dated women from these backgrounds before and found them just as wonderful as the ones I see at work.
However, that's not the case with everyone. Today, I heard of a woman flat-out refusing to see an African-American man. No way, no how was she taking his money. He could offer her double, she said, it didn't matter. Just send someone else.
I don't know why I was surprised to see racism rear its ugly head in escorting. After all, it's present in virtually every other part of life -- from job interviews to loan applications, traffic stops and shopping excursions. Escorting certainly isn't a bubble.In fact, one might argue that escorting can serve as a microcosm of the outside world.
All of these preferences and prejudices we have in America are almost magnified in the world of sex-work, where whims and desires are indulged on a regular basis. If someone doesn't like members of one ethnicity, well, they certainly aren't going to deal with them in such an intimate situation if possible.
Another girl took the booking, of course. My agent hardly batted an eyelash at the little hiccup, but later asked me if I had any similar preferences.
"If a black woman were to request a booking, would you take it?" she said.
"Sure. I don't know why _______ had an issue with it. Her loss."
"You're so much easier than the girls, Julian. If men earned as much money as women could, I'd set up an all-male group and never look back."
Later at the gym I thought about if there was any reason I would refuse to see a client. It certainly wouldn't have anything to do with race, but I did have a few deal-breakers. Under no circumstance will I not use a condom, nor will I have group sex with people I don't know.
All of these things have to do with character, not color, because to me that's what matters most.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Sins of the Past
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My first serious relationship was with a married woman.
I was 19-years-old, still living in the northeast, having taken time off after high school before starting college in Florida. The woman -- I'll refer to her as Catherine -- was stuck in a loveless marriage with a man who worked in finance. He'd take the train to New York City each day, and she'd be stuck by herself in the evening after finishing up at the hospital.
We met at a bookstore on a rainy afternoon. I was in the middle of reading a book about the art of cunnilingus when she glanced over at me in amusement. I smiled back, then asked her what she found so funny. Wasn't it a good thing that I wanted to learn how to perform oral sex well?
"Definitely," she replied. "You just look so young, that's all."
"I'm nineteen. Too young for marriage, but too old for... well, a Catholic priest."
That caused laughter from the both of us -- she because I was saying something politically incorrect, and me because I noticed some old lady had just overheard the joke.
I asked her for her number, not caring if I saw the large wedding ring on her left finger. She attractive -- brown hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, along with rich green eyes that sparkled like emeralds. It took me a few times for her to agree to see me again, but eventually...
I went home with her on our second meeting. We fucked in the bedroom, the shower, the living room (thankfully she remembered the close the blinds) and even her husband's office. I suggested that last one.
The affair lasted for a year, but eventually she broke it off. I was crushed; despite our age difference and the fact that I had just gotten into college in Florida, I still had ideas of us being together. My friends told me she was probably just after a good, quick fuck, and that women in their late 30s hooking up with young guys was all the rage in some circles.
Still, I was naive, and being cut loose hurt.
Catherine filed for divorce soon after, and thanks to proof that her husband was cheating on her -- I fucking knew it! -- she got a nice settlement. She's back on the west coast now, seeing a nice guy her own age. We keep in touch every now and then, but she still doesn't know what I do for a living.
Ironic, in a way, considering it was good practice. Without her, I doubt I'd be where I am today.
I was 19-years-old, still living in the northeast, having taken time off after high school before starting college in Florida. The woman -- I'll refer to her as Catherine -- was stuck in a loveless marriage with a man who worked in finance. He'd take the train to New York City each day, and she'd be stuck by herself in the evening after finishing up at the hospital.
We met at a bookstore on a rainy afternoon. I was in the middle of reading a book about the art of cunnilingus when she glanced over at me in amusement. I smiled back, then asked her what she found so funny. Wasn't it a good thing that I wanted to learn how to perform oral sex well?
"Definitely," she replied. "You just look so young, that's all."
"I'm nineteen. Too young for marriage, but too old for... well, a Catholic priest."
That caused laughter from the both of us -- she because I was saying something politically incorrect, and me because I noticed some old lady had just overheard the joke.
I asked her for her number, not caring if I saw the large wedding ring on her left finger. She attractive -- brown hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, along with rich green eyes that sparkled like emeralds. It took me a few times for her to agree to see me again, but eventually...
I went home with her on our second meeting. We fucked in the bedroom, the shower, the living room (thankfully she remembered the close the blinds) and even her husband's office. I suggested that last one.
The affair lasted for a year, but eventually she broke it off. I was crushed; despite our age difference and the fact that I had just gotten into college in Florida, I still had ideas of us being together. My friends told me she was probably just after a good, quick fuck, and that women in their late 30s hooking up with young guys was all the rage in some circles.
Still, I was naive, and being cut loose hurt.
Catherine filed for divorce soon after, and thanks to proof that her husband was cheating on her -- I fucking knew it! -- she got a nice settlement. She's back on the west coast now, seeing a nice guy her own age. We keep in touch every now and then, but she still doesn't know what I do for a living.
Ironic, in a way, considering it was good practice. Without her, I doubt I'd be where I am today.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Tell a Friend
Saturday, May 16, 2009
I told a friend that I'm a prostitute.
Bailey (not his real name) isn't just any friend -- he's one of my best friends, on the same level as Rebecca. It's ironic that I was the one who became an escort and not him, because he's actually better looking than I am. He has that doe-eyed Abercrombie & Fitch look, like he should be frolicking on a lake in upstate New York with Bruce Weber behind the lens.
He came over to my place after breaking up with his girlfriend. They'd been fighting for weeks, with her accusing him of infidelity when all Bailey did was attend a party with me. Glad as he was to finally end the relationship, a few days after he said he felt adrift, like he didn't know what to do with himself without his girlfriend at his side.
I told him to come over my place, that we could have a few drinks and catch a movie or something.
We were on the patio of my apartment when he looked me in the eye, much like I did to Rebecca.
"How do you afford this place?" he asked.
"Freelance work," I replied. "Why work 9-5 for a yearly salary when I can go from project to project and charge my own rates?"
"I don't buy it, Julian. Be real with me."
"Bailey," I said, "I'm telling you the truth. I go from client to to client and charge them for my... services."
His face went red as he realized what I was saying. Then, a smile spread across his face. He laughed aloud, looking down at the ground and then back in my eyes.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Please don't tell anyone," I said. "No one knows except you and Rebecca."
"You... you just started having sex for a living?"
"I started full-time last summer. Since then, I never stopped."
"And do you work with...?"
"Women only. The only time you see 'gay for pay' is in porn, and I have no interest in that world."
"Really?" Bailey asked. "Aren't porn and prostitution basically the same thing?"
That was a common question. The only way I can explain is that porn is full of drugs, thieves and liars, many of whom have criminal backgrounds and any number of Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Gay porn is the worst -- a cesspool of illness and narcotics, where kids as young as 18 (and in the case of Brent Corrigan, sometimes younger) are brought in and exploited until there's nothing left of them.
"Plus," I added, "there's no digital trail to haunt me for the rest of my life. Escorting is discreet and that's why I like it."
"Well, it sure as hell explains a lot," Bailey said. "Thanks for telling me."
"I wanted to do it for awhile. I knew I could trust you."
"Okay, now that sounded gay."
"Yeah, I know. Didn't your ex accuse us of having an affair?"
Bailey laughed. "Yeah, she did. Good fucking riddance."
Bailey (not his real name) isn't just any friend -- he's one of my best friends, on the same level as Rebecca. It's ironic that I was the one who became an escort and not him, because he's actually better looking than I am. He has that doe-eyed Abercrombie & Fitch look, like he should be frolicking on a lake in upstate New York with Bruce Weber behind the lens.
He came over to my place after breaking up with his girlfriend. They'd been fighting for weeks, with her accusing him of infidelity when all Bailey did was attend a party with me. Glad as he was to finally end the relationship, a few days after he said he felt adrift, like he didn't know what to do with himself without his girlfriend at his side.
I told him to come over my place, that we could have a few drinks and catch a movie or something.
We were on the patio of my apartment when he looked me in the eye, much like I did to Rebecca.
"How do you afford this place?" he asked.
"Freelance work," I replied. "Why work 9-5 for a yearly salary when I can go from project to project and charge my own rates?"
"I don't buy it, Julian. Be real with me."
"Bailey," I said, "I'm telling you the truth. I go from client to to client and charge them for my... services."
His face went red as he realized what I was saying. Then, a smile spread across his face. He laughed aloud, looking down at the ground and then back in my eyes.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Please don't tell anyone," I said. "No one knows except you and Rebecca."
"You... you just started having sex for a living?"
"I started full-time last summer. Since then, I never stopped."
"And do you work with...?"
"Women only. The only time you see 'gay for pay' is in porn, and I have no interest in that world."
"Really?" Bailey asked. "Aren't porn and prostitution basically the same thing?"
That was a common question. The only way I can explain is that porn is full of drugs, thieves and liars, many of whom have criminal backgrounds and any number of Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Gay porn is the worst -- a cesspool of illness and narcotics, where kids as young as 18 (and in the case of Brent Corrigan, sometimes younger) are brought in and exploited until there's nothing left of them.
"Plus," I added, "there's no digital trail to haunt me for the rest of my life. Escorting is discreet and that's why I like it."
"Well, it sure as hell explains a lot," Bailey said. "Thanks for telling me."
"I wanted to do it for awhile. I knew I could trust you."
"Okay, now that sounded gay."
"Yeah, I know. Didn't your ex accuse us of having an affair?"
Bailey laughed. "Yeah, she did. Good fucking riddance."
Graduation: Part Deux
A friend of mine recently graduated from college. I attended the commencement ceremony on Friday afternoon, which made me think back to my own graduation one year ago.
The ceremony itself was great, but as I sat in the stands with the rest of the guests, a feeling of guilt came over me. All of the speakers talked about striving for the best in life, even in the midst of a rotten economy. Those graduating with a Bachelor's degree had an advantage, it was said, because their time at university gave them the skills and the knowledge to strive in an ever-changing world.
I sat there, trying to spot my friend in the crowd but also feeling as if I had a scarlet letter on my chest. I'm sure that escorting wasn't a career path the university would be proud to see any of their graduates enter into, but that didn't stop me. In the elitist eyes of academia, selling sex for cash was deplorable -- on the same level as drug trafficking or other illegal activities.
Had I really sold myself short? I don't mean in terms of money -- I'm earning a better living than most -- but rather in terms of intelligence? Sex-work isn't psychologically taxing, but it can take an emotional toll if one isn't careful. So far I've been able to compartmentalize and numb my emotions well enough. Under no circumstances am I to develop feelings for a client and compromise the professional relationship.
As for "real love"? I haven't found it yet -- not that I'm really looking for it, either.
Will I stay in this business forever? Of course not. Everyone has a professional expiration date, even escorts such as myself. But right now, quitting escorting and trying to get a job with my degree will do nothing but put me in the unemployment line. There's nothing more humiliating than having to ask for a handout.
I made it in the world, just not by traditional means. That's all I want people to understand.
The ceremony itself was great, but as I sat in the stands with the rest of the guests, a feeling of guilt came over me. All of the speakers talked about striving for the best in life, even in the midst of a rotten economy. Those graduating with a Bachelor's degree had an advantage, it was said, because their time at university gave them the skills and the knowledge to strive in an ever-changing world.
I sat there, trying to spot my friend in the crowd but also feeling as if I had a scarlet letter on my chest. I'm sure that escorting wasn't a career path the university would be proud to see any of their graduates enter into, but that didn't stop me. In the elitist eyes of academia, selling sex for cash was deplorable -- on the same level as drug trafficking or other illegal activities.
Had I really sold myself short? I don't mean in terms of money -- I'm earning a better living than most -- but rather in terms of intelligence? Sex-work isn't psychologically taxing, but it can take an emotional toll if one isn't careful. So far I've been able to compartmentalize and numb my emotions well enough. Under no circumstances am I to develop feelings for a client and compromise the professional relationship.
As for "real love"? I haven't found it yet -- not that I'm really looking for it, either.
Will I stay in this business forever? Of course not. Everyone has a professional expiration date, even escorts such as myself. But right now, quitting escorting and trying to get a job with my degree will do nothing but put me in the unemployment line. There's nothing more humiliating than having to ask for a handout.
I made it in the world, just not by traditional means. That's all I want people to understand.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Boundaries
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Boundaries are healthy for any relationship. Escorts have them too -- especially the girls, who really make an effort to care for themselves and maintain their health and vitality.
What about me, then? One of the good things about being a man in this industry is knowing that my clients are virtually incapable of forcing me to do something I don't want to do. I don't mean to be chauvinistic, but the idea of a 5'4" woman trying to overpower me physically is foolish. Still, there are some thing I say no to, but that doesn't mean I won't partake in them outside of work.
No one is tying me up. Ditto for blindfolds, wrist restraints and/or handcuffs, as well as recreational drugs. I wish to remain lucid and mobile during my working hours, thank you very much. Anything related to BDSM is highly unlikely as well... at least when I'm on the job.
Outside of work, however, I'm game for a lot. Back when we still dated, Rebecca tanned my backside with a riding crop. The pain was sharp, stinging, and highly pleasurable. Laying on my stomach, I could feel my cock hardening by the second, pressing into the mattress when it really wanted to thrust through Rebecca's pussy.
She wasn't finished there, though. Cheesy as this may sound, having hot wax dripped onto my chest was alarming. I cursed aloud, begging her to let me fuck her already. She'd blindfolded me before starting, so I never knew when the wax would come next.
"Do you like that?" she asked, and dripped more, catching me on the nipple.
"It's hot," I replied. "Really, really hot."
"That wasn't a no," she said, then dropped more wax on my abdomen. "Or would you prefer another spanking? I'll do it with your own belt." She took off the blindfold and looked me in the eye. Though I was protesting her treatment I was still hard as a rock.
"Spanking," I muttered, and she obliged.
After fifteen strokes, she took mercy on me and starting sucking my cock. Her fingernails grazed along the shaft, followed by her tongue swirling around the head. Her soft moans mixed in with the general suction of the act itself, quickly bringing me to the edge. Then, as I was about to come, she took me out of her mouth and finished me off with her hand, allowing me to ejaculate in her face in the process.
I know it's typical to say she looked beautiful with my semen on her face, but it's true.
I rested for a bit, while Rebecca went to the bathroom to wash her face. We later took a bath together, which was heavenly. To this day, Rebecca is the only woman who knows about some of the "darker" desires I have. I plan to keep it that way until I find someone I can confide in.
If there's one thing escorting has taught me, it's that there is a difference between love and sex. I might be available for an hourly free, but real love doesn't cost a thing.
What about me, then? One of the good things about being a man in this industry is knowing that my clients are virtually incapable of forcing me to do something I don't want to do. I don't mean to be chauvinistic, but the idea of a 5'4" woman trying to overpower me physically is foolish. Still, there are some thing I say no to, but that doesn't mean I won't partake in them outside of work.
No one is tying me up. Ditto for blindfolds, wrist restraints and/or handcuffs, as well as recreational drugs. I wish to remain lucid and mobile during my working hours, thank you very much. Anything related to BDSM is highly unlikely as well... at least when I'm on the job.
Outside of work, however, I'm game for a lot. Back when we still dated, Rebecca tanned my backside with a riding crop. The pain was sharp, stinging, and highly pleasurable. Laying on my stomach, I could feel my cock hardening by the second, pressing into the mattress when it really wanted to thrust through Rebecca's pussy.
She wasn't finished there, though. Cheesy as this may sound, having hot wax dripped onto my chest was alarming. I cursed aloud, begging her to let me fuck her already. She'd blindfolded me before starting, so I never knew when the wax would come next.
"Do you like that?" she asked, and dripped more, catching me on the nipple.
"It's hot," I replied. "Really, really hot."
"That wasn't a no," she said, then dropped more wax on my abdomen. "Or would you prefer another spanking? I'll do it with your own belt." She took off the blindfold and looked me in the eye. Though I was protesting her treatment I was still hard as a rock.
"Spanking," I muttered, and she obliged.
After fifteen strokes, she took mercy on me and starting sucking my cock. Her fingernails grazed along the shaft, followed by her tongue swirling around the head. Her soft moans mixed in with the general suction of the act itself, quickly bringing me to the edge. Then, as I was about to come, she took me out of her mouth and finished me off with her hand, allowing me to ejaculate in her face in the process.
I know it's typical to say she looked beautiful with my semen on her face, but it's true.
I rested for a bit, while Rebecca went to the bathroom to wash her face. We later took a bath together, which was heavenly. To this day, Rebecca is the only woman who knows about some of the "darker" desires I have. I plan to keep it that way until I find someone I can confide in.
If there's one thing escorting has taught me, it's that there is a difference between love and sex. I might be available for an hourly free, but real love doesn't cost a thing.
The Curious Case of the Divorcée
I see a lot of women in my line of work, but divorcées are one of my most frequent customers. Sometimes, there's an air of sadness to them, as if their former marriage hangs over them like a veil, darkening the outside world.
Other times, they're quite happy. To them, marriage was a burden more than anything else, something to be tolerated until the relationship grew so contentious it was best to part ways. Once they're finally free, they find an energy and a "zest" for life that they hadn't felt since their twenties.
The cab left me off at a high-rise condominium in Brickell, one of Downtown Miami's swankiest neighborhoods. When I reached her apartment door, she let me in with a smile, then kissed me on the cheek. She poured us both a glass of wine -- a rich merlot -- and then settled on the sofa beside me.
"So, how long have you been working?" she asked.
"About a year," I replied. "Since June of '08."
She nodded, taking a sip from her glass then setting it down on the glass coffee table before us. I leaned in and kissed her cheek, her forehead, then finally her mouth. Her hands slid across my chest, fingernails digging into my skin. Before long I'd pulled her panties around her ankles and began eating her pussy, happy to see that she was completely hairless.
We moved to the bedroom to have sex, which was fairly standard in terms of positions. After slipping a condom on I entered her missionary-style, and finished off flat on my back as she went on top. One of the thing I have to do that female escorts don't is "cuddle" with a woman for a short while after the sex.
Sometimes this leads me to work more than my scheduled hour, but I don't mind. A satisfied customer is a repeat customer, and they are the lifeblood of my career. I certainly wouldn't mind seeing this woman again. She had a nice apartment, real breasts and a waxed pussy. What more could a gigolo ask for?
I was just halfway out the door when she called me back. I paused in mid-step, wondering if I'd left my cell phone or if she wanted to schedule another appointment. To my surprise, she looked me in the eye and then claimed to have seen me before.
"Sorry, I don't think so," I said. "I've got a common look for Miami, though."
"No, I mean... Did you go to (a specific university in the area)?"
"No," I lied. "You must be thinking of someone else."
"My ex-husband and I would walk there sometimes during the evening. I used to see a guy who looked just like you near the athletic fields."
Shit, I thought. My college apartment was near the athletic fields on campus. "Don't think so. It was nice meeting you, though. You have my agent's number if you'd like to see me again."
Truth be told, she probably had seen me before. Hell, perhaps we'd even made conversation at one point. Plenty of couples used to come to my college to enjoy the scenery, and didn't hesitate to make conversation with any of the undergrads who appeared friendly.
The cab ride home was dark, quiet and uneventful. The thought of taking a client only to see it was someone I knew was a terrifying possibility, one I fought to banish from my mind. Being an escort was contingent upon anonymity, and should my cover be blown, I would be as well.
Other times, they're quite happy. To them, marriage was a burden more than anything else, something to be tolerated until the relationship grew so contentious it was best to part ways. Once they're finally free, they find an energy and a "zest" for life that they hadn't felt since their twenties.
The cab left me off at a high-rise condominium in Brickell, one of Downtown Miami's swankiest neighborhoods. When I reached her apartment door, she let me in with a smile, then kissed me on the cheek. She poured us both a glass of wine -- a rich merlot -- and then settled on the sofa beside me.
"So, how long have you been working?" she asked.
"About a year," I replied. "Since June of '08."
She nodded, taking a sip from her glass then setting it down on the glass coffee table before us. I leaned in and kissed her cheek, her forehead, then finally her mouth. Her hands slid across my chest, fingernails digging into my skin. Before long I'd pulled her panties around her ankles and began eating her pussy, happy to see that she was completely hairless.
We moved to the bedroom to have sex, which was fairly standard in terms of positions. After slipping a condom on I entered her missionary-style, and finished off flat on my back as she went on top. One of the thing I have to do that female escorts don't is "cuddle" with a woman for a short while after the sex.
Sometimes this leads me to work more than my scheduled hour, but I don't mind. A satisfied customer is a repeat customer, and they are the lifeblood of my career. I certainly wouldn't mind seeing this woman again. She had a nice apartment, real breasts and a waxed pussy. What more could a gigolo ask for?
I was just halfway out the door when she called me back. I paused in mid-step, wondering if I'd left my cell phone or if she wanted to schedule another appointment. To my surprise, she looked me in the eye and then claimed to have seen me before.
"Sorry, I don't think so," I said. "I've got a common look for Miami, though."
"No, I mean... Did you go to (a specific university in the area)?"
"No," I lied. "You must be thinking of someone else."
"My ex-husband and I would walk there sometimes during the evening. I used to see a guy who looked just like you near the athletic fields."
Shit, I thought. My college apartment was near the athletic fields on campus. "Don't think so. It was nice meeting you, though. You have my agent's number if you'd like to see me again."
Truth be told, she probably had seen me before. Hell, perhaps we'd even made conversation at one point. Plenty of couples used to come to my college to enjoy the scenery, and didn't hesitate to make conversation with any of the undergrads who appeared friendly.
The cab ride home was dark, quiet and uneventful. The thought of taking a client only to see it was someone I knew was a terrifying possibility, one I fought to banish from my mind. Being an escort was contingent upon anonymity, and should my cover be blown, I would be as well.
Dinner with the Parents
My Mom and Dad are here for a long weekend.
They love Miami -- the beaches, the breezy nights, and especially the Hispanic culture that permeates throughout the city. I met them for dinner this evening, but was careful to show up just a little bit late, and blamed it on work.
Not my real work, mind you, but the freelance jobs they think I do to support myself.
After I began escorting, the first thing I thought of was how I would explain it to my parents. Then, seconds later, I decided that lying would be best. I don't like doing it -- especially when they think I've found success through a legitimate career -- but escorting requires many sacrifices.
If they found out I was a whore, it would crush them -- especially my mother. They'd blame themselves, wondering where they "went wrong" or if I'd been molested as a child and never told them. People usually equate sex-work with post traumatic stress, but I'm really just in it for the money.
Thanks to escorting I live in a glittering high rise on the water, pay my bills on time and have a healthy checking account. I started investing in stocks this past spring, dollar-cost averaging into ETFs and other mutual funds, careful to make sure I'm diversified. Filing taxes was a bit more complicated, but nothing I couldn't achieve with the guidance of my agent.
Each time I see my parents, though, I always think back of what things were like when I was growing up. I'm from the northeastern United States, and sometimes I do miss it, particularly during the fall. Autumn leaves that glow like fire when the sun strikes them; haunted hayrides on Halloween; and the first snowfall that usually happens in December.
Still, they seem pleased when they come to visit me, proud that I've created a nice life for myself down here. My mother peppers our conversation with questions about my love life, asking if I've "met someone nice" or when I think I'll be ready to "settle down."
If she only knew the amount of women I've been with -- she'd pass out. Dating while working in escorting is nearly impossible; all the other girls at the agency are single to the best of my knowledge. I know that one day I'll have to leave the business and find a proper job, though working 9-5 is still unappealing.
But for now, anyone can be with me if they're willing to pay. Lots of young kids get fucked when they enter a job market in the middle of a recession, but I was lucky enough to get to fucked and be paid for it as well.
They love Miami -- the beaches, the breezy nights, and especially the Hispanic culture that permeates throughout the city. I met them for dinner this evening, but was careful to show up just a little bit late, and blamed it on work.
Not my real work, mind you, but the freelance jobs they think I do to support myself.
After I began escorting, the first thing I thought of was how I would explain it to my parents. Then, seconds later, I decided that lying would be best. I don't like doing it -- especially when they think I've found success through a legitimate career -- but escorting requires many sacrifices.
If they found out I was a whore, it would crush them -- especially my mother. They'd blame themselves, wondering where they "went wrong" or if I'd been molested as a child and never told them. People usually equate sex-work with post traumatic stress, but I'm really just in it for the money.
Thanks to escorting I live in a glittering high rise on the water, pay my bills on time and have a healthy checking account. I started investing in stocks this past spring, dollar-cost averaging into ETFs and other mutual funds, careful to make sure I'm diversified. Filing taxes was a bit more complicated, but nothing I couldn't achieve with the guidance of my agent.
Each time I see my parents, though, I always think back of what things were like when I was growing up. I'm from the northeastern United States, and sometimes I do miss it, particularly during the fall. Autumn leaves that glow like fire when the sun strikes them; haunted hayrides on Halloween; and the first snowfall that usually happens in December.
Still, they seem pleased when they come to visit me, proud that I've created a nice life for myself down here. My mother peppers our conversation with questions about my love life, asking if I've "met someone nice" or when I think I'll be ready to "settle down."
If she only knew the amount of women I've been with -- she'd pass out. Dating while working in escorting is nearly impossible; all the other girls at the agency are single to the best of my knowledge. I know that one day I'll have to leave the business and find a proper job, though working 9-5 is still unappealing.
But for now, anyone can be with me if they're willing to pay. Lots of young kids get fucked when they enter a job market in the middle of a recession, but I was lucky enough to get to fucked and be paid for it as well.
Insomnia
I should be sleeping right now.
A paperback edition of Harlan Coben's Hold Tight rests on the nightstand beside my bed. I've read the first few pages and it's quite good so far. Still, I couldn't help but notice my laptop resting on the small desk in the living room. What's the point of having a blog if you don't intend to update it?
Work was uneventful tonight. Took a cab to the client's condo in Miami Beach, collected my money and then had sex. She was somewhere in her late 30s or early 40s, though in an age of Botox and chemical peels guessing one's age is increasingly difficult. Miami -- the city I call home, though it's not where I grew up -- is on the forefront of such procedures.
For the record, I normally don't mind breast implants, assuming they were done with care. There are a lot of great tits to be seen in Miami, but whoever operated on this woman's chest should have his license revoked. The scar was visible and they were hard to the touch. Sucking on her nipples felt like I had a jawbreaker in my mouth. Sex-work may be easy but it's not always pleasurable. Still, I'm not looking to leave the industry any time soon.
Though I mentioned why I got into escorting in an earlier post, I thought I should focus more on the how and when.
I was introduced to the business by a girl I'll call Rebecca. We met in an English literature course at our alma mater. After dating for a brief period of time, we soon settled on friendship. It took me a few months to discover she was an escort. Eventually, I confronted her on how she was paying for that handsome apartment without a full-time job.
At first I was alarmed, worried over her safety. I then became angry over her deceit, before a wave of curiosity poured over me like an August thunderstorm. She was generally hospitable, but voted against committing her story to paper -- or blog. Our friendship continued on as normal after her occupation was revealed, and I never imagined I would be joining her as a professional peer.
One night, a doctor had requested a voyeuristic experience -- as in watching her have sex with another man while he masturbated off to the side. Bizarre, but not unheard of. Rebecca had talked him up to $750 for the night, almost double her normal rate on account of my being there. You see, she didn't feel comfortable being with another male escort. And seeing how she and I had already dated and fucked before... I got a phone call I never expected to get.
The sex was mechanical but not at all unpleasant. Sensations I'd forgotten came back to me -- the taste of her cunt, the way she scratched her fingernails across her back, or even her tendency to slap me right before I came to enhance the effect. The only "bad" experience of the night was when I made eye-contact with the doctor as he jerked off. Rebecca hadn't noticed -- she was sucking my cock at the time -- but I did.
After the night was finished, I never thought I'd participate in sex-work again. Alas, the job market somewhat forced me to do so. Actually, I take that back -- the "alas" bit, at least. I certainly don't consider myself a victim or an unfortunate soul.
Sometimes, the thought of what I'll do after escorting gnaws on my conscience like a termite on a block of wood. The world of advertising and marketing and public relations (I have a degree in one of these areas) will still be around, but could I truly take an entry-level position after being my own boss and earning a six-figure income? Only time will tell...
For tonight, at least, I have another appointment with Mr. Coben. And to think, he'll give me hours of pleasure all for the low price of $9.99 at Barnes & Noble.
A paperback edition of Harlan Coben's Hold Tight rests on the nightstand beside my bed. I've read the first few pages and it's quite good so far. Still, I couldn't help but notice my laptop resting on the small desk in the living room. What's the point of having a blog if you don't intend to update it?
Work was uneventful tonight. Took a cab to the client's condo in Miami Beach, collected my money and then had sex. She was somewhere in her late 30s or early 40s, though in an age of Botox and chemical peels guessing one's age is increasingly difficult. Miami -- the city I call home, though it's not where I grew up -- is on the forefront of such procedures.
For the record, I normally don't mind breast implants, assuming they were done with care. There are a lot of great tits to be seen in Miami, but whoever operated on this woman's chest should have his license revoked. The scar was visible and they were hard to the touch. Sucking on her nipples felt like I had a jawbreaker in my mouth. Sex-work may be easy but it's not always pleasurable. Still, I'm not looking to leave the industry any time soon.
* * *
Though I mentioned why I got into escorting in an earlier post, I thought I should focus more on the how and when.
I was introduced to the business by a girl I'll call Rebecca. We met in an English literature course at our alma mater. After dating for a brief period of time, we soon settled on friendship. It took me a few months to discover she was an escort. Eventually, I confronted her on how she was paying for that handsome apartment without a full-time job.
At first I was alarmed, worried over her safety. I then became angry over her deceit, before a wave of curiosity poured over me like an August thunderstorm. She was generally hospitable, but voted against committing her story to paper -- or blog. Our friendship continued on as normal after her occupation was revealed, and I never imagined I would be joining her as a professional peer.
One night, a doctor had requested a voyeuristic experience -- as in watching her have sex with another man while he masturbated off to the side. Bizarre, but not unheard of. Rebecca had talked him up to $750 for the night, almost double her normal rate on account of my being there. You see, she didn't feel comfortable being with another male escort. And seeing how she and I had already dated and fucked before... I got a phone call I never expected to get.
The sex was mechanical but not at all unpleasant. Sensations I'd forgotten came back to me -- the taste of her cunt, the way she scratched her fingernails across her back, or even her tendency to slap me right before I came to enhance the effect. The only "bad" experience of the night was when I made eye-contact with the doctor as he jerked off. Rebecca hadn't noticed -- she was sucking my cock at the time -- but I did.
After the night was finished, I never thought I'd participate in sex-work again. Alas, the job market somewhat forced me to do so. Actually, I take that back -- the "alas" bit, at least. I certainly don't consider myself a victim or an unfortunate soul.
Sometimes, the thought of what I'll do after escorting gnaws on my conscience like a termite on a block of wood. The world of advertising and marketing and public relations (I have a degree in one of these areas) will still be around, but could I truly take an entry-level position after being my own boss and earning a six-figure income? Only time will tell...
For tonight, at least, I have another appointment with Mr. Coben. And to think, he'll give me hours of pleasure all for the low price of $9.99 at Barnes & Noble.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Beginning
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
After graduating college, I became a whore.
I didn't expect this to happen. Escorting / sex-work / prostitution isn't a field I had any ambitions on entering. But the small amount of jobs available for recent grads left me with few other options. Compared to temping at an office or selling clothes at the mall, prostitution looked downright practical.
My agent takes a twenty-percent commission -- less than she would for one of the girls. I'm left with about $200 per booking, plus tips. The hours are strange, and working weekends is common, but other than that business has been fairly pleasurable. As you can see, my name is Julian. Well, not really, but I'm sure you understand the need for me to maintain my anonymity.
To the best of my knowledge, I am one of very, very few men who have blogged or even written about their experiences as a sex-worker. I'll do my best to keep my blog light and entertaining, strong sexual content is clearly a given. There's just one last thing I'd like to make clear before I end this post.
I am not a drug addict, nor was I ever abused as a child. In fact, one could say I grew up upper-middle class, and unlike many households in America my parents are still together. I wasn't forced, coerced or otherwise "led" into becoming a prostitute; I am here under my own volition. My clients are women, and I don't work with other men. That being said, I'm a big supporter of the gay community, and think that the debate over gay marriage is one that should be ended with equal rights for all.
All right, I'm off for the evening. Someone has to pay the rent ;-)
I didn't expect this to happen. Escorting / sex-work / prostitution isn't a field I had any ambitions on entering. But the small amount of jobs available for recent grads left me with few other options. Compared to temping at an office or selling clothes at the mall, prostitution looked downright practical.
My agent takes a twenty-percent commission -- less than she would for one of the girls. I'm left with about $200 per booking, plus tips. The hours are strange, and working weekends is common, but other than that business has been fairly pleasurable. As you can see, my name is Julian. Well, not really, but I'm sure you understand the need for me to maintain my anonymity.
To the best of my knowledge, I am one of very, very few men who have blogged or even written about their experiences as a sex-worker. I'll do my best to keep my blog light and entertaining, strong sexual content is clearly a given. There's just one last thing I'd like to make clear before I end this post.
I am not a drug addict, nor was I ever abused as a child. In fact, one could say I grew up upper-middle class, and unlike many households in America my parents are still together. I wasn't forced, coerced or otherwise "led" into becoming a prostitute; I am here under my own volition. My clients are women, and I don't work with other men. That being said, I'm a big supporter of the gay community, and think that the debate over gay marriage is one that should be ended with equal rights for all.
All right, I'm off for the evening. Someone has to pay the rent ;-)
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