Julian's Favorite Things

I’ve decided to list the following things I love to have done to me during sex. No real reason, other than the fact that I rarely seem to experience any of them on a regular basis at work. When I’m on the clock, it’s all about the client. However, in my personal life, I feel more comfortable asking for certain things. Read on…

· Chest play. This can include kissing/licking the pectoral area, as well as rubbing it with one’s hands. Nipples are suitable for licking and/or sucking, though anything involving teeth should be done delicately.

· Nails. Whether it’s scratching them along my chest, back or abdomen, they’ve always been arousing. However, there is a fine line between pleasure and pain. Generally, digging so deep that blood is drawn is not a good idea.

· Oral Sex. A given, I know, but I do have a few preferences. Slow and steady wins the race, at least for me. And don’t think you must stay permanently latched on during the process. A quick break to pull off and switch to a hand job is fine. Secondly, don’t ignore the testicles. Licking, sucking or simply massaging them are all lovely techniques.

· Sitting on my face. Something about having a woman’s genitals up-close-and-personal is a lot of fun. When in this position, I normally like to use my lips and tongue to try and give her some pleasure as well. Still, make sure there’s room for air. Suffocation via oral sex might be a bit complicated to explain to the authorities.

· Spanking, etc. I’m a fan of light, playful BDSM. Instruments can include paddles, belts or riding crops. Having my ass tanned by a woman while naked and blindfolded is deeply arousing for reasons I do not know. Is it the loss of control? Perhaps. As with any BDSM activity, a safe word is necessary.

So there it is. I realize that the above activities will paint me as a sexual deviant among certain populations, but I’m not too concerned about that. After all, this is a blog about a male escort (AKA gigolo; AKA prostitute; aka whore). On a more trivial note, writing about these acts has gotten me a bit horny. Now, if you’ll excuse me…

Tensions

It seems there’s some tension between Adam and Bailey.

This could be due to the fact that Adam -- who as I’ve mentioned before is gay -- drunkenly hit on Bailey at a gathering at my apartment. Bailey took it in stride, though after the party wrapped up and he stayed behind to help me clean up, he did reference Adam’s sexual advance.

“Julian, his hand was on my crotch.”

“I know,” I said. “But hey, a lot of people would consider that a compliment.”

“You and I have never been ‘most people’ and you know it.”

“True. Adam does drink a lot, come to think of it. And I suppose the fact that he considers bedding straight men as some sort of trophy prize doesn’t help matters either.”

Bailey chuckled. “If you tell me you boned him…”

That made me laugh, if for no other reason than the idea of having sex with Adam is downright comical. He and I have a brotherly relationship -- and unlike the novels of V.C. Andrews, sibling incest is not a pivotal point in the development of our relationship. Even funnier was the fact that Adam downright interrogated me one evening, asking if Bailey and I had ever been intimate in the past.

One would think having sex with women for a living would quell all curiosity about one’s sexual orientation, and yet…

“So, what’s new at work?” Bailey asked.

Ah, I thought. Nice segue way into the sex details.

“Nothing really,” I replied. “It’s not like every client is good fuck. Rebecca is still the best I ever had, but that makes sense, all things considered. I still can’t believe September is almost here. Once November gets here and all the snowbirds come back to Miami, I’ll really be working.”

As Bailey and I continued to clean up, he gingerly asked some more questions. Ever since coming out to him as a gigolo, he’s never really brought it up, but I suppose curiosity gets the best of everyone in the end. Funny how he prefaced his questions by saying he had no interest in entering the business himself. That’s fine by me, actually.

Bailey is better looking than I am, and just as smart and charming. The thought of competing with him for women is actually rather frightening.

“Speaking of Rebecca,” Bailey continued, “why wasn’t she here tonight?”

“Client,” I answered. “Last-minute booking, I think. I missed her, too.”

“Julian, what I’m about to say is going to hurt, but it needs to be said.”

“All right…?”

“Pining over Rebecca is bad news. I’m sorry, man, but she’s a whore -- as are you. How in God’s name could that ever work?”

Bailey’s logic was annoying in its truthfulness. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d rather not talk about it if that’s all right with you.”

He nodded. “I just want to look out for you, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“Oh, and Julian? I’ve been reading your blog. So, tell me this: How does fisting work, exactly?”

Now there was a topic I could talk about.

First Look

I’ll never forget the first time I saw pussy.

I was sixteen-years-old, on my way to the city on a commuter train. I wasn’t supposed to go into the city alone, but seeing how there’s a train station right near my house, and my parents wouldn’t be getting back home until after 8 p.m., it’s not like anyone was there to stop me.

As I boarded the train and took my seat, I noticed there was an attractive woman seated across from me. We made brief eye contact, though I was much too shy at that age to make conversation. I’m still not sure how old she was -- perhaps her early thirties -- but at sixteen that put her in a completely different category than the girls I was used to socializing with.

“You’re skipping school, aren’t you?” she said.

I could feel my face go red. After averting my gaze, a slight grin spread across my face. Looking back at her, I nodded, saying that my parents had left that morning for a funeral that was two-hours away from home. By the time the service was over, as well as the kind of “after party” at the deceased person’s house, it would be well into the afternoon. And fighting rush-hour traffic, well, that could add another hour-and-a-half to their overall commute time.

“I don’t blame you,” she added. “Besides, it’s almost the Christmas season. Not like you’re going to do anything useful anyway.”

“It’s nice to finally meet someone who understands how things work.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, we settled into the silence of the train ride. The station near my home was about thirty minutes away from the city, with a few stops along the way. Oddly, the train itself was deserted except for us. True, it was the middle of the afternoon, meaning a majority of people were already at work.

It was then I noticed she had uncrossed her legs. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. Then, it hit me -- she wasn’t wearing any underwear, and I could see between her legs. It’s funny, because I had just watched Basic Instinct on late-night cable the night before. Just as I’d been aroused at the sight of Sharon Stone’s bush, I now had one peeking out from a woman’s skirt before me.

I’m fairly certain I made some sort of noise -- a gasp, a soft moan -- because the woman asked if something was wrong. As if she didn’t know what she was doing! Yet before I could do anything (or at that age, attempt to do anything), she got off at a stop before mine. Without so much as a word, she gathered her things, slipped on her coat and walked out the train door, leaving me alone in a state of stunned silence.

Whenever I take the train back home, I think of that woman. I think of how in today’s child predator obsessed-world, that woman might be labeled a sex offender, and sentenced to live the rest of her life under that national registry. Yet I didn’t feel “victimized” by her little flashing at all. In fact, it’s one of the more pleasant memories I had from my high school years, which were largely filled with boredom and melancholy. Lastly, my parents never found out about that trip to the city, let alone what I’d seen on the train. I was able to keep them in the dark (for their own good) then, and I’m still able to do it now.

Orgy Adventures

"Would you go down on my boyfriend?"

That was a question posed to me by a petite blond at last night's orgy. Her blue eyes were wide with anticipation, as if it was something I might actually do. Unfortunately for her, I declined, leaving both her and her boyfriend unsatisfied.

I've been petitioning that we need to figure out some way of identifying orgy participants by sexual orientation, just to make things easier. Later that night, it seemed she did find a gay / bisexual man to indulge her fantasy of watching another man go down on her boyfriend.

As for me? Well, I met a couple who seemed pretty interested in in a threesome, which is fine by me. In what's known as MMF (male-male-female) pairing, I had sex with a woman as her boyfriend watched, joined in, then watched some more. Part voyeuristic fantasy, part active participation.

For those who may cringe at the idea of group sex, rest assured that there are several precautions taken. First, all participants are screened for criminal backgrounds, and must provide up-to-date drug tests and a negative Sexually Transmitted Infections (STIs) exam.

Some, like me, are hired to act as facilitators to get the party going, so to speak. While my fee wasn't quite as high as last time, it was enough for me to take Thursday off and enjoy a quiet afternoon. This weekend I'll be back on the prowl, but after an orgy I definitely needed a day to relax.

However, something interesting did happen last night. I met another male escort -- straight, like me, but also younger. So young-looking I thought me might be underage, but was shocked to discover he was in his early twenties. He got involved in the business this past summer, and hopes to continue through the school year.

(Yes, he's attending college, yet another example that many escorts on the high-end of the business are in fact educated individuals.)

We exchanged information, and I told him if he had any questions or concerns to give me a call or text. He seemed thankful, and unlike some of my peers in this industry, I could actually see us getting along outside of work. I'd have to keep him away from Adam, though -- he is awfully handsome.

Now that my work on this blog is done, I think I'll go collapse on the sofa and continue reading Jim Butcher's White Night, which is Book 9 of his phenomenally successful Dresden Files series. Too bad being a freelance wizard in Chicago isn't a realistic career goal, because it sure sounds like a hell of a good time!

Gunnery School Scandal

What is it about prep schools and sex scandals?

It begins at the Gunnery School, located in Washington, Conn. In this $42,000/year school, former dean Richard Reinhardt has been accused of sexually abusing three boys -- two of which have filed lawsuits against the school.

Reinhardt -- who's been with the Gunnery School since 1996 -- denies all charges and was fired from Gunnery in June, when the allegations first surfaced. He was arraigned earlier this month on charges of sexual assault and risk of injury to a minor.

It's tragedies like these that I think make people remember who the real sexual deviants are. So to the very, very few who have expressed disgust and/or contempt for what I do, just remember I always do it with a consenting adult.

That's a lot more than can be said for others.

Do Men Give Better...

The blow job debate recently came to a head.

Rebecca and Adam got into it, claiming that they were both adept at performing oral sex on men. Rebecca, because of her profession, Adam because as a gay man, he knows how to "satisfy a man like no woman could."

Needless to say, I stayed out of the debate and just enjoyed watching the two of them spar.

Aside from my brief kiss with a high school jock, I've never had any sexual contact with other men. As such, I'm afraid I'm no good at determining who gives better oral sex. I've heard the old adage plenty of times before, though. In addition, I've heard lesbians claim they can eat pussy far better than any heterosexual male.

The debate did get me thinking, though. Are homosexuals somewhat advantaged at sex, seeing how they're having it with a same-sex partner? Logic would seem to support this theory, as trying to navigate the many idiosyncrasies of the opposite sex is and always has been challenging.

I've read several books dedicated to the topic of eating pussy, and still, I doubt I'm as good as the average lesbian. Sure, one can learn some great pointers from sex literature, such as not flicking the tongue so as much smoothing it across the labia and clitoris and other such areas.

Of course, there's always the matter of length -- in terms of time. Giving a woman oral sex for ten minutes isn't likely satisfy her, and oral sex in general is not a race. Men, on the other hand, are different. A ten-minute blow job is fine by me, assuming she's skilled with her lips, tongue, etc.

"We should take a poll," Adam suggested. "Julian, what's your vote?"

"Never been blown by a man, so I can't say."

"Still, you get what I'm saying, don't you?"

"I'm confident you know more about sucking dick than I do, and possibly more than Rebecca. But don't take my word on it -- I'm just a whore."

"We all are," Rebecca added.

"True."

One would think that three whores in a room would be able to solve most any sexual question, but that's not the case. Perhaps some things in life are meant to go unsolved.

Taking Pictures

A client wanted to photograph me, to which I said no.

We'd already finished having sex. However, she'd paid for a two-hour booking, something about her husband being out of town and her wanting the company. It sounded like a flimsy excuse then (and still does now), but I'm not inclined to argue.

I will give her credit for having a nice camera. It wasn't just a simple point-and-shoot, but rather a digital SLR with a nice zoom lens. After showering, she told me she'd fix us a drink and we could spend time in the backyard. It was warm, true, but the flickering torches kept the mosquitoes at bay.

The backyard was small but nicely appointed, with a decent-sized lap pool and plenty of flowers and trees. As I settled into my chair and began sipping my drink, I saw her approaching with the camera in her hands.

"Sorry," I said, "but it's against company policy for any photographs to be taken."

"Is it? I thought that -- I mean, since we'd already finished..."

"Sorry, no pictures. Anonymity is kind of a big deal in this business."

She looked disappointed but respected my wish. Perhaps she just wanted to take some candid photographs of me in her handsome backyard. Even so, that could have caused problems. Should her husband find them, how would she explain a twenty-four-year-old man on his property?

On a side note, is photography the hobby de jour of women across America? I've noticed more and more clients either beginning it or expressing interest in starting. There are plenty of classes, and the costs have become a lot less prohibitive ever since the days of 35mm film and the darkroom are long gone.

"Have you ever let a woman photograph you?" the client asked. "During... or after, even."

"A few years back, yes. I was nineteen at the time. She was my first serious relationship."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I was young and naive enough to think it wasn't a big deal. Thankfully, she destroyed the more explicit pictures and kept only the PG-13 ones."

"I always hear about young people sending each other naked pictures of themselves," the client said. "Personally, I don't think it's that big a deal. And charging them distributing child pornography? Please..."

From those comments it was obvious this woman didn't have children, nor did she appear to want any, either. Perhaps if she had kids, she'd have less time to hire male escorts to keep her company while her husband was away. Hell, for all I knew he was having a Girlfriend Experience (GFE) with a female escort.

The last remaining hour passed by quickly, even if the client was a bit nosy. Truth be told, I've always been a good liar, so coming up with a good back story wasn't difficult at all. Still, I won't deny that as soon as I saw that camera my heart skipped a few beats. The idea of being revealed is one that keeps me up at night.

This blog is anonymous, and it's going to stay that way. Should I ever be revealed, well, my days in escorting are over.

College Grads Can't Find Jobs

Again, I don't consider myself a victim of anything. My decision to work as a prostitute has nothing to do with past sexual abuse, a drug / alcohol addiction, or any other trauma to be featured on a Lifetime movie.

That being said, am I bitter over not having any better prospects due to the recession and lackluster job market? To be completely honest... no.

However, I definitely understand the mentality. Like many other young people across the country, I went to college in order to get a Bachelor's degree, with hopes of getting a proper job with room for advancement. And then the Credit Crisis happened. After that, frozen credit seemed to paralyze the entire financial system, leading to a dive in consumer spending, which then lead to lay offs and... well, the rest is pretty clear.

Getting a job now is difficult -- very, very difficult. Compared to other young people in their twenties, I think I have it pretty damn good. Sex work is neither time-consuming or intellectually draining. Sure, it can cut into one's personal life, and having to lie to family and friends isn't much fun, either.

So please, no more bleeding-heart e-mails about how I'm some sort of lost soul who is a victim of the economic crisis. The true people are those who lost their jobs and health insurance and half of their retirement savings. As for those who bought uses with interest-only mortgages -- houses they KNEW they couldn't afford -- the hell with them. They shouldn't have been bailed out, because their poor financial situations are their own damn fault.

Lastly, I always had a feeling that my first job out of college would be something out of the ordinary. Quite simply, I've felt like a misfit my whole life -- outside the norm, almost on the fringes of my community, like I never really "belonged", trite as that may sound.

Being a escort is one of the strangest, enlightening, and downright bizarre jobs one can take -- assuming they can get it. Rebecca, Adam and myself are a small fraction of sex workers, both in physical attractiveness, education and earnings. Getting to our level is no small feat, and shouldn't be looked upon as something exploitive or unfortunate.

So there it is. Again, not all escorts are victims. And after this rather somber entry, I promise to have some more lighthearted entries about my clients. That, and perhaps a few more stories from my teen years. Stay tuned.

Aroused at Work?

Someone sent me an e-mail this week, asking if I was always sexually aroused while working. The truth is, I've found my work less titillating as time goes on, though that's not to say I don't enjoy it. Like anything else, the "newness" of sex work faded after the first six months, and only occasionally returns when the client is something special.

That said, there are certain acts I do find arousing -- for instance, taking my clothes off at the client's request / command. I start with my shoes and socks first (wouldn't want to be left buck-naked with the exception of black dress socks), then continue with my shirt, pants and finally my boxer briefs.

I don't make a spectacle of it, nor do I rush to finish. And while I wish I could provide a concrete example as to why I find this act arousing, I'll say that I just can't do so. Perhaps it's the idea of being at someone's command that I enjoy, or maybe it's just a simple ego feed of the client finding me attractive, and subsequently wanting to get me naked.

But by and large, I save the most arousing acts for my non-work hours, for engaging in light BDSM with a client isn't a good idea. Other sex acts (rimming, anal, etc.) I prefer to do with someone I know and trust, rather than someone I've just met. I know that sounds preposterous, and of course I've bent the rules a bit in the past. What can I say? Perhaps I'm more "traditional" that I thought I was.

Lastly, I have to say my most arousing night at work had to be the first time I ever had sex for cash -- even if it was Rebecca rather than a regular client. Performing for an audience -- however small -- is a fantasy of mine that did come true. And while I'm not really into orgies per se, I didn't exactly loathe the private party I attended in the Keys.

So there it is. I'm sure I make about as much sense as the woman who asked Barney Frank why he supported President Obama's "Nazi" health care plan, but alas, sex work is rarely black and white. On another note, after taking a bit of a break from blogging, I'm full of fresh, new ideas, and will resume a regular posting schedule soon.

Until then...

Who Provides for the Providers?

I've been in a weird, brooding mood lately. Don't know why, exactly. I'm never one to complain about "drama" and work is going fine, but for some reason...

Is it possible for escorts to suffer from sexual frustration, just like "regular" people? The thought of a prostitute complaining about sex would strike most people as something of an anathema -- that is, how can one complain about sex when it's virtually the bread and butter of the profession?

Well, just because escorts have sex for a living doesn't mean they like it all the time. There are demanding clients, clients with bizarre fetishes, clients who expect us to alleviate years of sexual dysfunction and/or trauma after just one booking. The reasons for hiring an escort are varied, and can include anything from reliving past experiences to try to overcome shyness.

Meanwhile, the escort his/herself can be a completely different animal. What I mean is, he/she may enjoy a completely different type of sex than what she has to provide. Me, for instance, I enjoy a bit of light S&M, but would never imagine putting a client in charge.

BDSM in general is built on trust. If I'm going to allow a woman to dominate me, then I should definitely trust her. This goes for anything, from spanking and bondage to even verbal assaults and blindfolds. It's for that very reason -- trust -- that I don't get to engage in BDSM as much as I like.

Perhaps that's the cause of my (somewhat) foul mood lately. While I don't claim that BDSM is some sort of miracle that can cure everything, to me, the act of being degraded and/or physically struck always released endorphins that made me feel better.

When a woman slaps me, it starts off as a tingle. It may also be hot, even shocking. Then, the pain seems to decline, until all that's left is a blissful after glow. The fact that I normally get hard as a rock within minutes supports my theory that sometimes, physical punishment can be arousing.

The first time Rebecca took a belt to my ass, I practically came on her bed sheets. From there, everything from silk scarves to nipple clamps have been used. She was pretty good about not leaving any marks -- at least nothing that wouldn't fade in a day or two. On the odd occasion that I did have a battle scar, I wore it with pride.

Would a booking with a dominatrix (also known as a "mistress") do me good? Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I miss the feeling of nails on my back and a sharp palm across my face.

Same-Sex Experience

Ever since blogging about Adam's rant on the term rent boy, he's been bugging me to share an experience from my teen years.

(Adam, I hope you find this story amusing, and if it weren't for the anonymous nature of this blog I wouldn't be posting it at all!)

All right. I was seventeen-years-old, about one month into my senior year of high school. I was born/raised in the northeastern United States, where each fall the trees look like they're on fire and the smell of burning leaves and apple cider fills the air. My hometown -- however boring it may be -- is quite picturesque from October through November, actually.

But onto the sex -- or, rather, attempted sex. After a particularly rainy week, my friends and I were all looking to have some fun. Mercifully, the sun broke through the clouds on Saturday morning, and after going into town to enjoy the weather, we all ended up at a friend's empty house.

This friend, his parents are quite wealthy. So wealthy that they often jet to New York City or London on their own, leaving my friend (an only child) to his own devices. Armed with plenty of cash and an enormous Victorian-style home at our disposal, it wasn't long before pizza was ordered and marijuana began to be smoked.

For the record, I've only smoked once in my life -- that night. It just doesn't do much for me, and the smell can wreak havoc on one's clothes. That, and my parents were far more diligent than this wealthy friend of mine, and would have surely smelled it if they weren't at a family gathering which I wasn't forced to attend.

Somehow, someway, I ended up alone with one of the most popular guys in our class. He was tall, handsome, with dark brown hair and skin that was as fine as fresh snow. His eyes were a sparkling green -- like emeralds, according to a female friend -- and his build was muscular enough to make even a few of our teachers steal a passing glance in the hallway.

"You want any?" he asked, and offered me the joint.

"Sure." I took a deep puff, then put it out as I realized I'd used the last of it. The rest of the party was downstairs, but for some reason I'd ventured upstairs -- probably to use the bathroom -- and found Mr. Jock all by himself.

"So are colleges all drooling over you to play football for their team?" I asked.

He let out a chuckle. "A few, yeah. My dad wants me to go to (his alma mater) but I'm not feeling it."

"I understand that. Who wants to grow up to be exactly like their parents?"

As we opened the french doors to let out the smoke from the room, I felt Mr. Jock's hand brush against my back. I didn't think anything of it. That is, until, it traveled up my back and began to massage my shoulders.

"You look tense," he said. "Maybe you need some more weed."

No fucking way, I thought. Holy shit. No... fucking... way...

By the time his mouth met mine I was practically paralyzed. His lips parted, brushing against my own and all but asking me to return the gesture. Instead, I broke off the kiss, tasting his lip balm and the remnants of the joint we'd just shared. He moved forward, though I pressed a hand to his chest, gently pushing him back.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, I think you got the wrong idea."

"Gay, straight, who gives a shit. You're the most liberal person I know when it comes to all that stuff. Besides, didn't you--?"

"No," I snapped, referring to a rumor that'd gone around about me during junior year, one that was completely false. "Look, I'm sorry if I gave out certain vibes. And I won't tell anyone what happened here."

Mr. Jock's face seemed fixed between anger and disappointment. After brushing past me -- letting his massive shoulders deck me in the process -- he went downstairs and left the party, loudly proclaiming that his own parents had returned early and wanted to know "where the hell he was."

To this day, no one knows about what happened upstairs. Well, no one but Mr. Jock, Adam and myself, and now anyone who happens to read this blog. I think about the jock sometimes -- whether his same-sex advance was just a blip on the orientation radar, or whether he's abandoned women completely.

Wherever he is, I hope he's happy. And while I'm proud of this blog, I certainly hope he never reads it...

Rent Boy -- NOT

Truthfully, it's normally quite hard to offend an escort. Sure, failing to have the proper amount of money in the envelope might get one blackballed from an agency, and asking for services that have been specifically been declined on the agency website is also annoying. But to truly offend an escort? Well, there's only one way to do that for me...

Never, ever refer to me as a rent boy.

This topic recently came up. Adam and I met in Coconut Grove for drinks, and he looked pretty irritated. After ordering a Mojito, I asked him what was wrong -- if a favorite client had moved on, or whether that idiot stepbrother of us was causing trouble again. He denied both, but said he had gotten into an argument with someone.

"Who?" I asked. "Your agent? Hell, if it's getting bad, I can ask mine if she'd be willing to take you on--"

"No, not that. Another escort, actually. But he... he's not like us. He services men."

"Oh, a rent boy?"

That's what set Adam off. "Can you believe he had the nerve to call me the same thing? Like I'm some emaciated twink who sucks dick to support a drug habit?"

I shook my head. "Come on, that's not us and you know it. All those boys do is support the drug trade and spread disease. They wouldn't last ten minutes with clients like ours."

As Adam continued to vent, I did my best to just stay silent and listen. Though he's gay himself, Adam is what many online would call "str8-looking, str8-acting," meaning he's not watching the latest fashion offerings on Bravo and can blend in with a bunch of breeders watching UFC pretty easily.

"I don't know why it pisses me off so much," Adam said. "It just does."

As I've said before, the field of sex work is as diverse -- meaning, there are some who are at the top of their game both professionally and personally, while others are wallowing in relative poverty and are teetering on the edge of psychotic breakdown.

While I hope this blog proves that I am in fact a bright, educated individual who is in this profession by choice, there are certainly other who are not. Low education achievements and the need to support either a drug addiction or a child(ren) may lead some to prostitution. To compare escorts like Adam and I on the higher end of the scale to these unfortunates can be in insulting, for the simple reason that it's a gross generalization of the industry as a whole.

Like it or not, many choose to be escorts because they get paid very well for something that doesn't take up a lot of time. We'll all move on -- eventually -- but for someone in their twenties, this job isn't a bad gig at all.

"Well, I've said it before and I've said it again. Neither of us are 'boys' and we're certainly not for 'rent'. And aside from you taking dramamine whenever we go out on the boat, neither of us are addicted to anything."

Adam smiled. "Except sex, I suppose. Then again, that kind of goes with the territory."

The Break-Up

Considering I had sex with Rebecca while on vacation in Vancouver, it's not like I could continue the relationship I had before.

It's a shame, really, because the girl I was seeing was great. Smart, successful, full of energy and even quite funny. It was beginning to weigh on me that I had to lie about what I did for a living -- especially when she seemed so interested in my freelance life, finding it to be a liberating alternative to life in the office.

Little did she know that by "freelancing" I meant prostitution.

We broke up face-to-face. I'm not a fan of doing it over the phone, or -- even worse -- via e-mail. She took it well, to the point where I'm wondering if she planned on breaking up with me. I'm not quite sure if we were ever really exclusive, but we did see each other around once a week (if not more), and slept together.

I didn't blog about the sex because I was just so busy trying to juggle her and my clients and my friends and everything else under the sun. Plus, I felt almost guilty about even thinking about blogging about her. She was just so... nice. Too nice, perhaps. So nice that when I had the chance to sleep with a girl who knows how to be mean in a sexually-arousing way, I took it.

Rebecca and I haven't really confronted the elephant in the room, that elephant being I still have some feelings for her. Maybe she has them for me as well -- or maybe not. But seeing how we're both high-class escorts, it's not like we can do much about it. If our agent ever found out we were together, she'd surely let us both go. Nothing personal, but it would definitely affect her bottom line.

And like I've said before, prostitution isn't about sex -- it's about the money.

So there you have it, and update on my increasingly complicated life. More entries will be coming soon, and I'm still mulling over the idea of letting Adam guest blog. Bailey requested it as well, though I had to politely decline. He knows far too much about the "real" me, and I'm not about to have my real identity revealed.

Health & Fitness

No, I'm not about to talk about this section of books at Barnes & Noble.

A family member (actually, a family member through marriage rather than blood) recently had a heart attack. His wife and children were obviously shaken, and it wasn't long before the phone calls started to circulate. That's how it works in most families, isn't it? Something either very good or very bad happens, and there comes a string of phone calls and e-mails to let others know.

Well, I received the news directly -- not from someone else who'd heard it first, but from one of the children of the man who suffered the heart attack. His son (my cousin) is about my age, lives in another part of the country and comes to Miami once every year or so. He has no idea what I do, just that I've always lent a sympathetic ear when necessary.

While his father is expected to recover, the revelation that he's also diabetic was enough to give everyone pause. It's not that diabetes isn't uncommon or unmanageable, but rather that one's life choices can have devastating effects down the road.

Without going into too much detail, my cousin's father is a very, very successful man who works in a high-stress field. Between flying from continent to continent and then working at his base, healthy eating and regular exercising was an all-too-elusive goal.

So, did he theoretically sacrifice health for success? I certainly hope not. Should he have taken better care of himself throughout the years? Most definitely. However, this isn't about blaming. Right now, the best thing we can do is be there to support him during his recovery and encourage him to take the proper (read: preventive) steps before he lands in the hospital again.

The entire thing got me thinking about the whole debate about personal responsibility in terms of health care reform. Many say that if people simply ate better and exercised regularly, they wouldn't be as susceptible to obesity, diabetes, etc. Subsequently, health-care costs would (possibly) come down.

Seeing how I'm a escort / gigolo / prostitute / whore, I know I'm not exactly a shining example of what most consider personal responsibility. I do, however, eat healthy and exercise about four times a week in order to stay in shape. If I ever got fat, I would be unemployed. If that isn't motivation, I don't know what is.

But as for right now, I'm doing what I always do late at night when I'm restless. Drink some chamomile tea and watch a bit of TV. The X-Files will be on in less than thirty minutes...

Advice

Talked with Rebecca over my slight freak out regarding boundaries. She calmly asked if I felt victimized, or somehow "wronged" by what transpired with the client. I told her no, it was nothing like that, just --

"What?" she said. "Don't tell me you're starting to develop some kind of puritanical conscience on me."

"I doubt I'll be working for Focus on the Family anytime soon, but something definitely is going on here. Yesterday, I even checked out a job board online."

"And?"

"It was pretty shitty, and I was actually grateful I had a few multi-hour bookings this week."

"Well, there you go."

Gender stereotypes be damned, Bailey is a much more attentive listener than Rebecca. According to her, we escorts sometimes don't realize just how good we have it. Not only do we get paid handsomely for our work, but we also genuinely enjoy it. Imagine going to an accounting firm each morning and hating your job? Or having to teach a classroom full of demon children for a paltry salary.

"Don't rock the boat," she continued. "I mean, you've only been in the business a little over a year."

"You're probably right. Besides, it's not like having a huge gap on my resume will help matters, either."

She then steered the conversation back to what happened with the client. While Rebecca sympathized with my momentary fear of being tied to the bed by a woman I'd just met, she reminded me it wasn't like I couldn't break the restraints if I tried hard enough. Let alone physically restraining a woman who has only a fraction of my strength.

"Come on, Julian. Men are the stronger sex -- that's just how it is. No offense, but it's hard to feel any sympathy for you in this situation."

Then, it hit me. The reason why I was so upset over letting a client do that -- it was so simple it was almost stupid. Up until that night, the only woman I'd ever allowed to restrain me was Rebecca. Whether it was silk scarves, furry handcuffs, blindfolds or rhinestone collars, S&M was her domain and hers only.

By letting a client restrain me like that... was I feeling some sort of guilt? Guilt over letting someone else "replace" Rebecca and what she'd done for me? Despite the rather sexually explicit content of this blog, I am in fact somewhat traditional. I care for those close to me. And thus far, I've only grown close to two women -- Rebecca and Catherine.

"Julian? You okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Just a little sleep-deprived, that's all."

She seemed to buy the lie. On the drive home, I came to terms with the fact that I still have some residual feelings for her. Harboring feelings for an escort -- beautiful. Best of all, I have another round of clients on Tuesday. As the saying goes, it all goes on...

Saturday Night

Some boundaries were crossed, and I'm not quite sure why I agreed to it.

It's not like the client was exceptionally attractive. Not to say she was a beast, but I've been with more attractive women here in Miami. Still, there was something about her -- the way she carried herself as I arrived at her home, with her straight posture and almost regal features.

She couldn't have been Hispanic. In fact, I'd say she was rather Irish looking. Long, black hair that almost reached down to her waist, along with what many call an "aristocratic" nose. Now before you start thinking I had sex with Anjelica Houston, let me state that wasn't the case.

(Anjelica, however, is one of my favorite actresses, just FYI.)

First off, I drank a bit more than I usually do. Like many (responsible) escorts, I normally limit myself to no more than two glasses of wine. This time around, it was three. Now for someone in their early twenties, this might seem inconsequential, but for me it is. Part of the reason I've been able to stay safe and successful in the business is that I take the proper precautions.

Upon reaching the bedroom, my standards really began to crumble. Things such as wrist restraints and blind folds are normally forbidden while I'm on the clock, but not last night. There I was, slightly drunk and restrained on the client's bed. She could have taken out an ice pick and murdered me like Catherine Trimell in Basic Instinct, but thankfully she didn't.

It seemed she enjoyed having me there captive -- at least I assume she did. When she bent down and grazed her breasts across my chest, I do believe I shuddered, at which point she giggled in return. Why is it that I can go from a professional sex worker to an adolescent boy at the drop of a hat?

Aside from a few scrapes and scratches from her nails, I managed to leave the two-hour booking unscathed. Earlier today Bailey noticed there was something amiss about me, and I admitted about what'd transpired the night before.

"So what, you like all that S&M stuff, don't you?" he said.

"Yeah, but that's not the point. Anymore I feel like my escorting life and my real life are beginning to bleed into one. That's bad news, man. Whenever that happens things usually go downhill, and fast."

"Well, you don't have to escort forever. I mean, the economy is in the shitter right now, but I'm sure you could still find something."

The thought had crossed my mind on more than one occasion. Unlike most of the girls at the agency -- not to mention my male peers, whether they service men or women -- I am in fact educated. Went to a good university. I'm supposed to have so many "options" at this age.

"It might be time for a break," I said. "The question is, am I really willing to give up the money and freedom?"

To that, Bailey had no answer. And truthfully, at this point, neither do I.

Overnight

My overnight booking went well, if not a bit boring. Like many of my other bookings, it involved a mix of true escorting -- this time at a social event -- and of course, sex. Interesting how no one ever questions the fact that I'm a good fifteen to twenty years younger than my client. And even if they do, it's never to either (the client and I) of our faces.

When we returned to the apartment, well, it was obvious she expected more than a peck on the cheek. She seemed prepared -- as if she'd used escorts before, judging by the condoms inside the drawer by her bed. I caught a brief look at her husband from a photo in the living room, which confirmed my suspicions that he was much older than she was. Too old, perhaps, to get maintain an erection and satisfy her properly.

More than anything, I always wonder what people think the next day when I'm riding down the elevator -- particularly the staff at the front desk. They saw us come in together, and then they see me leaving the next day. Do they wonder if I'm just a young boy toy? A visiting relative? Or, most likely, a Man About Town?

Like any other luxury building in Miami, the staff is used to seeing and even conversing with high class prostitutes such as myself. I even have a friendly relationship with a few of the concierges throughout Miami and the beaches. Most of the time it's the working girls that try to form friendships with the concierges, who may recommend them to guests or give them a heads up if a client for the evening isn't someone they should be with.

The one negative for the evening? As I was having sex with the client, I couldn't think about anything else but Rebecca. This isn't unusual; it's not as if I find every one of my clients attractive, and if thinking of someone else helps me maintain an erection and give the client an orgasm, so be it. This time, however, my thoughts were almost debilitating, like I wanted to just pull out and drive to Rebecca's apartment.

I don't think the client noticed, judging by the tip she handed me on top of my already handsome fee. As I've mentioned before, overnight bookings are the best because they last a lot of hours and pay very, very well. Some escorts work strictly overnight bookings, eager to keep their schedules open for either college classes or other pursuits. Me, I like a mix of both.

For now, however, I need to haul my ass to the gym. I promise to have a few more sexually-explicit entries up soon. That's what everyone wants to read, isn't it? Sex and money -- it's the American way.

To Tell, or Not to Tell?

Just two days back from Vancouver and already I'm mediating a crisis.

Bailey instructed a friend of his to contact me regarding his situation. It seems this friend just found out his girlfriend had an abortion without his knowledge -- and yes, the baby was his. Seemed they had stopped using condoms and were relying on birth control pills, ones that she forgot to take one day, and ended up getting pregnant.

Fearing her boyfriend would leave her should she reveal the pregnancy, she chose to abort and be done with it. When the boyfriend finally found out... well, let's say it wasn't pretty. He left their apartment and has been staying with Bailey for the past few days while he looks for another place.

So, who is "right" and who is "wrong" in this situation? That was the answer the boyfriend desperately wanted to hear -- but sadly, I couldn't provide it. I did my best to let him vent, listening to his feelings of sadness and betrayal and even guilt. The thought of bringing a child into the world terrified him, so it in that respect he knew that having an abortion was the right thing.

However, what hurt the most was the fact that his girlfriend didn't even bother to tell him -- that their relationship wasn't strong enough to deal with this event together. What else could she be hiding, if she was able to conceal her pregnancy?

More than anything, this event solidifies my position that there needs to be a male birth control pill out there. Something that a man can take to prevent pregnancy, should his female partner ever forget to take hers. Once both partners are tested for STIs and given a clean bill of health, they can rest easy in that they are both exclusive with one another, and that no pregnancy will result out of their having sex.

I'm not quite sure why Bailey referred his friend to me, other than the fact that sex is my profession and I have a good deal of experience dealing with it. To the best of my knowledge, I don't have any children out there in the world, something I certainly hope to be true. Finding out that their real father was a whore and that their mother was paying for a good time isn't something a child should be exposed to -- at least not until they're old enough to understand it.

Last but not least, this episode reminds me why I think having a vasectomy would be a great thing. Now finding a doctor to perform the procedure... that would be the hard part.

After the Storm

Rebecca is upset that I already blogged about our having sex. I don't see the big problem, really. I've certainly blogged about far more intimate things than me giving her a rim job or our little venture into Brandi's Strip Club in downtown Vancouver.

However, out of respect for out friendship, I won't be mentioning any other details. What I will talk about, however, is the fact that our little shag (excuse my British slang, but after watching so much BBC America I'm starting to use it in daily conversation) has thrown my current relationship into a state of uncertainty.

Was I exclusive with the girl I was seeing? Well, considering I'm a whore, I don't think so. But in my (twisted) escort mind, I like to think that having sex on the job and having sex in my "real life" are two separate things. Having sex on the job wasn't cheating -- but sleeping with Rebecca was.

The girl left me a voicemail, asking how my trip went and if I'd be available for a movie on Sunday afternoon. I called her back, gave her some of the more mundane details of my vacation, and said that Sunday afternoon would be great. After hanging up, I felt like a complete and utter fraud. Strange, I know, since if she knew what I did for a living she'd probably call me every name in the book.

So what's a man to do? Unfortunately I don't have much time to think -- I have an all-night booking tomorrow and I need to get working on some errands here in Miami. Not to mention my parents recently asked if I'd be available to visit them up north at the end of the month.

Escorting has never complicated my life. Now my personal relationships... those are much more taxing.

Vancouver

Back from my vacation. Vancouver is a beautiful, beautiful city. Totally different from Miami in respect to its Asian influences, more reliable public transportation and general laid-back feel. The scenery is dramatic and inspiring, and just going for a walk by Stanley Park was enough to make me contemplate moving.

Kitsilano Beach was a nice destination as well -- a far cry from the pastel-colored playground of South Beach. While I'm something of a snob when it comes to beaches, sometimes I do like to go to places that aren't so focused on glamour. Sure, St. Tropez, France at Marbella, Spain have their charm, but what about a place where you can just relax and not worry if you look as hot as the other patrons?

The big highlight of the trip, however was that Rebecca and I had sex. It came after a night at a strip club named Brandi's, located in downtown Vancouver. Rebecca is a fan of such establishments, which isn't surprising, given her job. After paying for quite a few dances and even more drinks, she and I returned to our hotel in Yale Town and ended up in bed -- her room, not mine.

Having sex with an ex-girlfriend is always awkward, yet also highly familiar, almost comfortable. She and I know each others' bodies well, to the point where we can both pleasure one another far better than any new partner. For instance, she knows I love having her lick my chest, and I know that when I rim her (if you don't know what rimming is, look it up), she goes insane.

For the record, Rebecca is the only girl I have done that with. My tongue just doesn't go anywhere.

I'd like to write some more, but I had a long flight and I'm ready to fall into bed. So until tomorrow, this entry will have to suffice. More details coming soon...