Stranger than Fiction

I've come to realize that my life is very, very bizarre. I remember a creative writing professor of mine saying that truth is allowed to be stranger than fiction -- but that fiction can't be too strange, or else the reader won't trust the author.

Work has been picking up a bit, now that some of the snow birds are returning to Miami and, as usual, want nothing to do with their husbands. Recently, I had a woman who wanted me to come over dressed like a frat boy. No idea why. Maybe she found them hot or something.

After a quick run to American Eagle, I came dressed in cargo shorts, a sky-blue polo and some nice leather sandals. I even put on a bit of cologne, too. She seemed satisfied with the sex, though it wasn't until I was showering that I realized that women have their fetishes, just like men.

Is it considered strange or creepy for a woman in her forties to fantasize about having sex with a college-aged guy? I don't think so. Grown men still love the school-girl outfit, after all.

Of courses, these fantasies can become problematic when the object of one's desire is underage. Is pretending to seduce a teenage girl/boy who's home alone during the weekend a precursor to genuinely sexually deviant behavior? Judging by the multitude of websites that claim to have "HOT SEXY NASTY XXX TEENS", it's obvious that these places are allowed to operate, and of course all the "teens" in question are eighteen or older.

Perhaps I'll go further into detail about what the client and I did. I'm sure Adam has some stories to share too. In addition, Bailey was one left red-faced in South Beach, when a busty brunette he was speaking with turned out to be sixteen.

But for right now, I need to go to the gym. You'd think sex was a good enough work out, but alas...

Final Goodbyes

Well, Rebecca is finally gone.

I'd been dreading her departure for some time. Even though I knew it was inevitable and that there was nothing I could do to stop it, I still dreaded it. I'm what many call a hands-on person (no sexual innuendo there), and not being able to change something I don't like often leaves me frustrated.

Still, I can't believe she's gone.

Even though we only dated briefly, we remained friends for much longer than that. In addition to getting me into escorting, she was there for me on a number of occasions when I needed her -- when I felt like there was no one else in the world that could or would understand/sympathize with me.

How did we say goodbye? A hug, a kiss, a promise to keep in touch. We were on South Beach (the SoFi area, known locally as South of Fifth Street). It's been our favorite haunt for awhile, close to the action of Ocean Drive but far from the more frequented by tourists. We'd often talk about how, one day, we would both own apartments in the beautiful condominiums in the area, and look back on our escorting days with humor and satisfaction.

Well, now it's just me. Adam and Bailey have been great, but walking along the sand by myself without her beside me is tough. The smell of her perfume, the way I'd run my fingers through her hair, and listen to the soft, girlish laughter when I'd crack a stupid joke.

Before getting in the taxi, she told me that perhaps I should look to get out of escorting and into a traditional job. It's not that I'm getting over the hill (hell, I'm not even twenty-five), but that it's a job that can become addictive if you let it.

"Well, will you?" she said.

"Look for a nine-to-five? Maybe. Eventually."

"You'd probably have to leave Miami, too," she added. "The economy here in Florida is terrible. But then I know how much you leave the beach."

I nodded. "We'll see where life takes us. Good luck in ________. I'm sure you'll do well. If not..."

Rebecca laughed. "Yeah. There's always escorting."

And then off she went, out of my life and out of the city we both called home since college. Even worse was the fact that I had a client that night, and had to make myself look presentable and cheerful for the woman who was paying for my company. No small miracle.

Now, as I type this entry into Blogger, I'm about to switch into another tab in Firefox. It's for Monster.com. A job site. Just to see what's out there.

I'll report back soon...

Drunken Dinners

Honestly, my friends are still alive.

After leaving my loved ones off the blog for awhile, I've decided to write about them once more. Adam -- fellow escort, also homosexual -- was excited/nervous to have his parents make an impromptu visit to Miami. It's not that they don't know he's gay -- they just don't know he's a sex worker.

I'd met them once before, and found them as affable and witty as Adam. Still, the poor parents had one hell of a flight, and were looking to unwind when we went out to dinner in the Brickell area of Downtown Miami.

It wasn't long before they both were pretty drunk.

Adam's father leaned in and looked me in the eye. "Are you and my son screwing?"

Adam's face went red, but I couldn't help but laugh. "No, we're not."

"Heaven forbid we ever meet anyone," Adam's mother added. "So, Julian, are you seeing anyone?"

"Oh, I see plenty of girls," I said, letting the irony of my statement hang in the air. "Just not one in particular. Still looking around, I guess. That's what your early twenties are for, right?"

Both Mom and Dad approved. I have no idea what lie Adam tell them about what he does for a living, but they didn't ask him about work at all. Me, however, they asked me plenty about what it's like working in freelance PR. Is that what Adam told them I do? Apparently so.

"It's pretty good," I said. "Clients can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but that's true of every business, isn't it? Still, I prefer freelance than working nine-to-five. I get to make my own hours and work as much or as little as I like."

"Isn't health insurance tough?" Mom asked.

"That's the one downside," I said. "Thankfully my coverage isn't too expensive. Still, I wouldn't mind a public option. I hope President Obama succeeds."

After I helped Adam make sure his parents got into a cab and safely over the Causeway into Miami Beach, we both had a laugh. He apologized for his father's blunt honesty and his mother's inquiries about my career in "freelance PR".

"Don't worry about it," I said. "They're funny as hell, man."

"Glad you think so. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm meeting a client nearby. I'll catch up with you later this week?"

"Sure," I said. "Sorry to hear about your working tonight."

"Why's that?" Adam asked.

"Well," I said, a smirk spreading across my lips, "you already ate fish once tonight."

Value Voters Summit (Carrie Prejan is an idiot)

I knew this was coming sooner or later.

We'd just finished having sex. Nothing special -- a bit boring, actually. What struck me most about the client was how conservative and prim she appeared to be. Then again, I should know by now that there isn't a specific "type" of person that hires an escort for sex.

Perhaps her husband ignores her. Perhaps he's having an affair himself and she's having sex with me out of spite. Last but not least, erectile dysfunction (ED) could be wreaking havoc on their sex life -- most of all the wife, who needs sex more than her husband could ever imagine.

However, I could forgive all this. Hell, part of it even fascinates me. What I couldn't forgive is that this woman turned on the Value Voters Summit -- a breeding ground for conservatives who think our president is a "socialist" and that his public-option plan for health care will turn the US into France.

"Why are you watching that shit?" I said, and instantly knew I'd overstepped my bounds.

"What do you mean, 'shit'?" the client asked. "It's a gathering of social conservatives."

Though I knew my agent would scold me soundly (and that she did), I decided not to back down.

"Those people are nothing but fear mongers," I continued. "They lost the election -- and even worse, a black man is president. Double insult."

"So all conservatives are racist?"

"Well, having Rush Limbaugh as the party's mouthpiece doesn't help. I'm a little suspicious over Mitt Romney too -- well, actually, just over Mormonism. Do you know what LDS doctrine says about dark-skinned people? They're cursed by Cain, apparently. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't worry. No matter what they say, they're not a religion -- they're a cult."

The client scowled like a dog. A wave of shame went through me that I had sex with this woman, much less took her money. We sparred for a few minutes more, particularly over that stupid cunt Carrie Prejan. Here is a girl who thinks she was chosen by God to deny gays the right to marry.

Does that qualify as schizophrenia?

"You should go," the client said, just as I'd gathered my things. "I don't think I'll be using your services again."

"A word of advice," I said. "Don't expect people in my line of work to agree with conservative politics. I don't know what the hell happened to the GOP the last few years, but they're full of religious fanatics and pro-war fear mongers. Of course there's one cure for fear."

"And what would that be?" the client asked wryly.

"Education," I said. "I might be a prostitute, but I'm neither uneducated nor influenced by scare tactics. If only the rest of the world was so fortunate."

And with that, I caught the cab waiting outside, and left the client's home knowing I'd never return. Wherever she is now, I hope she realizes that spreading fear in the name of politics in order to get one's party ahead went out of style in the 1950s.

Oh, and who the hell is Maggie Gallagher? The obese woman who introduced Prejan? I looked her up, and she appears to some sort of columnist / anti-gay marriage advocate hybrid. If her ugly mug isn't enough to scare off young voters, I don't know what is.

Fatherhood

I've been debating whether to write about this at all. It's funny -- I can write about fisting, rimming, orgies in the Florida Keys and everything else under the sexual sun, but when it comes to my own life I'm a bit more cagey.

Running into a client's child made me think back to my relationship with Catherine, as well as the subsequent pregnancy that ended it. Yes, pregnancy. As I've mentioned before, Catherine was married when we began our relationship. In addition to sleeping with me, she would (occasionally) have sex with her husband.

As she explained it, she simply forgot to take her pill. She hid the pregnancy from both her husband and myself until she suffered a miscarriage during her first trimester. Being slim, she didn't even show. But who was the baby's father? That is a question that was never answered.

I tell myself that it wasn't my child. After all, Catherine and I used condoms religiously, which meant even though she forgot her pill, we still had protection. I've never suffered a broken condom -- thank God -- which makes me believe the child had to be her husband's.

Still, the thought of her carrying my child was frightening. She would have kept it, certainly. But would she have acknowledged the affair she and I carried on to her husband? Would I leave my son/daughter to be raised by them?

It's happened before. Babies created via extramarital affairs are, at times, kept by the married couple. The other man gets paid off, sometimes even signing a contract promising he will never contact either the married couple or his offspring in exchange for a cash payout.

So there it is. Just one of the few skeletons from my closet -- events that helped shape the person I became, no matter how much I would like to forget them. While I know the purpose of this blog is to titillate the reader with tales from my life as a male escort, I do find the process of (anonymously) confessing my past to be rather cathartic.

And despite being in early twenties, I still have plenty of skeletons left. Stay tuned...

Close Encounters of the Child Kind

The client said we were alone -- and I believed her.

It wasn't until I had walked downstairs to wait for my cab did I see her teenage daughter in the living room. She looked quite like her mother. Same brown hair, hazel eyes and olive skin tone. She (the daughter) looked relaxed as she lounged on the sofa, watching "Twilight" on DVD.

For a moment, I hoped I could just sneak out the front door without her seeing me. Alas, I must have stepped over a creaky floor board, because she immediately turned around and looked at me with a wide-eyed expression.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I... uh... I'm from Best Buy."

"Best Buy?"

Feeling my face go red, I said, "Yeah, you know... the Geek Squad. Your mom told me you had problems on the computer upstairs."

"Oh." The girl sized me up from head to toe. "Aren't you supposed to wear a uniform?"

Shit, I thought. "Um, you're right. But I got some Pepsi on it during lunch, so it's at the dry cleaners. I was just on my way out..."

"Is her computer all right?"

"Yes," I said. "Just fine."

As soon as I heard the cab honk out front, I ran out of the house like a bat out of hell. That alone had to tip off the daughter that I wasn't from the Geek Squad (last I checked, they drive a VW beetle with the Geek Squad logo printed on it).

It was one of the most frightening encounters with a client, for sure. I must have looked positively horrified, because even the cab driver asked if I was all right. Upon getting home, I went to the refrigerator and downed some coke and Jack Daniels.

Frightened as I was over running into a client's child, I wonder what the client herself will explain to the daughter. Frequenting escorts isn't something one can just discuss at the dinner table. Then again, it's not my problem -- but hers.

As I've always said, children and escorting DO NOT MIX.

Aim to Please

Every once in awhile, I'll meet a client who seems to think it's her responsibility to pleasure me. One would think that a woman who's paying several hundred dollars an hour for sex would be focused on her own pleasures, but that wasn't the case. From the minute we entered the bedroom, it seemed she was on a mission -- mainly to get me to orgasm before the hour was finished.

"Slow down," I said. "There's no rush. What do you want to do?"

"Just lay down on your back," she said. "I'll do the rest."

I did as she asked, and before I knew it, my boxers were around my ankles and she was sucking my cock. She was pretty good, actually, and the fact that she didn't ignore my testicles was an added bonus. The only "bad" part was when her fingernails dug into my abdomen, though a quick tap of the hand ended that.

"All right," I said, feeling I was about to ejaculate. "I'm going to--"

She wouldn't let go. I've never had a client swallow, but there's a first time for everything. After she pulled off, she went into the bathroom and gargled with some mouthwash, then came back into the bedroom.

"Still some time left," I said. "Come on, I'll return the favor."

"Return the... Oh, all right."

"Unless there's something else you'd like to do...?" I said, not quite sure what this woman had in mind. Why did she hire me, anyway? Did she have a penis craving that just couldn't wait? I know women are often just as sexually ravenous as men, but feel they can't express these desires without being called a slut/whore/etc.

"My ex used to spank me," she said. "Would you be willing?"

My eye brows must have been up to my skull. Still, if that's what she really wanted, I was in no position to argue. It was then that I realized why I'd been hired: To recreate the sex games she used to do with her ex. Hiring a male sex worker to recreate the memories from a former lover isn't unheard of.

After leaning over the desk, I took down her underwear and began kneading the flesh of her ass, finding it soft yet firm, the result of aerobics and pilates and any other exercise regimen that's popular among women.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"Yes -- just do it."

And that's just what I did. One after the other, my right hand struck her flesh, reddening it and causing her to shudder in what I hope was pleasure. After a good twenty smacks, I told her she'd had enough -- but that I didn't feel right not giving her anything else. And so I guided her to the bed, and told her to kneel on all fours like she was preparing to take it doggie style.

"There's condoms and lube in the bathroom," she said.

"Won't need it," I answered, and then went down on her from behind. I briefly thought of rimming her, but I only do that with people I know -- or at least a client I've been seeing regularly for several months. As I continued to use my lips and tongue, I gave her ass a few extra smacks, feeling her shudder in the process.

And then, she came.

While being "dominant" with a woman isn't something I ever fantasized about, I have to say the experience wasn't that bad. Do a lot of women have these fantasies about being dominated or submissive? Perhaps it's because the women in my life are so strong, I forget that not everyone with a XX chromosome is an alpha woman.

For once, it was nice to be in charge.

Corporate America

There’s nothing sexier than a woman in a suit.

True, divorceés are my most frequent customers, but that’s not to say I don’t entertain a high-powered corporate woman from time to time. Sometimes, they’ll arrive to the hotel straight from work, which means they’re still wearing office attire -- normally a pantsuit or a blazer and skirt. Colors are usually black, white or navy, and hair and makeup are always kept to a minimum.

The hotel was small -- boutique, even, which makes for a more intimate first meeting. Whenever I meet a client in the Loews Miami Beach or the Marriott in the Brickell business district, there are usually lots of people around. In a boutique hotel, that’s not the case. Often times I can spot the client as soon as I get in, because she very well may be one of the few people in the lobby.

After meeting the client at the bar, I took a moment to size her up. She was in her early forties (either that or she had a brilliant dermatologist and/or plastic surgeon), trim, and just a little bit on edge. My best guess is that she’d never used an escort before, and either expected me to be hideously ugly or painfully young.

“Don’t be nervous,” I said to her. “I’ve been doing this for awhile. You’re in good hands.”

“You’re young,” she replied. “Early-twenties young.”

“Yes, I am. But you should know by first serious relationship was with a married woman. Like I said, I’ve been doing this for awhile. But if you like, I can leave. Maybe if you call my agent she can find someone else, but on such short notice--”

“No -- don’t go,” she said. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Don’t worry about it. Shall we?”

By the time we reached the hotel room and lay down on the bed, I was undressing her piece by piece. To my surprise, her underwear was much sexier than I expected it to be. Sheer black panties along with a matching bra, allowing me to see everything she had to offer before the garments came off. And unlike most young women, she didn’t wax her genitals.

Who ever thought pubic hair would become a rare sight?

Though not waxed, she was impeccably groomed, and only tickled my face as I licked her for a good half hour. After slipping on the condom, I penetrated her and began to thrust with increasing speed, until she pressed her hands against my chest (a sign for me to roll over) and finished things off on-top.

When we finally came, I was sitting upright, my face between her breasts. It wasn’t until we were lying together after the fact that I realized the appointment had gone over an hour -- but that will be our little secret.

She handed me a good tip, then said she wanted to ask me something.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Why do you do this?”

One of those, I thought. “Because I like it. Follow your bliss -- isn’t that what we’re all supposed to do?”

She smiled. “You’re young enough to be my nephew, but better company than men twice your age.”

“Thank you,” I said, as I headed to the door. “But if you really want to flatter me, recommend me to your friends. I can use all the work I can get.”

Incalls

I had a request from a client for an incall. Normally, all of my appointments are done outside of my home -- a hotel, the client's house, etc. This time, however, the client (a regular) wanted to meet me at my place.

What's a gigolo to do?

I surprised myself when I agreed. Understand that this client is a regular. I've been seeing her for the past six months, and I know her to be a kind, trustworthy person. Still, never having done an incall before, I was nervous.

I cleaned my apartment until it was gleaming, not unlike a picture from a magazine. And while my abode isn't quite as glamorous as what one might find in a copy of Ocean Drive or Miami Home & Design, I do pride myself on living in a handsome building that has a great water view.

The client was impressed when she saw my place, too. Thankfully, I still had a bottle of wine left over from a party a few weeks back, so we drank from that to break the ice, so to speak. Not that there's much ice left to break with a regular client, but you know...

And yes, we did have sex -- in my bed. The sheets were clean and the scented candles let the scent of vanilla carry into the air, which made for an aesthetically-pleasing scene... I hope. This client in particular likes doing it doggie style, and while I was facing a mirror, it was too dark to really see anything.

One of the benefits of being a sex worker is that sex can be a cathartic experience -- meaning when I'm feeling down, engaging in sex (a physically-strenuous activity) can help lift my mood. While that might sound psychologically dubious, I truly believe the endorphins released from sexual activity can lift one's mood, just like exercise.

Between sex and exercise, I probably have endorphins to spare, which makes getting through tough times a little easier. Will I do any more incalls in the future? I don't think so -- if for no other reason than inviting someone into my home is still a personal decision, one that I don't take lightly.

Yet, for the right price, aren't we all flexible?

Painting With Light

I'll never forget the time I heard the phrase "painting with light" used as a metaphor for photograpy. Of course, this metaphor isn't quite true anymore -- not with the advent of digital cameras and the disappearance of dark rooms.

While I wasn't a fan of high school, I did enjoy some of my elective classes. For some reason, they were just funner than regular ones. Studio art was great, as was graphic design and, most of all, photography.

Despite not wanting to be photographed during work, I did oblige one client's request to photograph her. She had nice equipment, too, and I don't mean her breasts and ass (though both of those were great). Her camera was a digital SLR, complete with several lenses and a large, crystal-clear LCD screen.

The fact that I was still naked myself (we'd just finished having sex) didn't hold me back. I grabbed the camera and snapped away, taking nude and non-nude photos in a variety of poses and lightning. The client was in her mid-forties, thin and attractive. Not "gorgeous" per se, but attractive.

Afterward, she talked about how she always wanted to be photographed after sex, but her conservative husband wasn't interested. I've always noticed that women are usually more adventurous than men. Guys talk about wanting sex all the time, but when it comes to the really interesting/kinky stuff? Yeah, that's all the ladies' doing.

So, do I have any of the photographs? Yes, I do. The digital files are in her possession, though I did receive an envelope of eight-by-ten printouts at my agent's office. My agent had already opened the package, admitting that she was worried I'd allowed myself to be photographed -- something I was not allowed to do.

But when she saw the photos were of the clients -- and after I explained that it was something she wanted -- my agent was fine with it. She even complimented my work, and compliments are not something she hands out frequently. One really has to earn them.

It's nice to think that when I finally leave escorting, I'll have several "souvenirs" to take along with me. This blog is probably the most descriptive of the lot, but the photos will be a nice reminder, too. And maybe, just maybe, I'll discover a field that incorporates my love of sex work while maintaining a "traditional" job.

A long shot, but not impossible. I'm living proof that truth is stranger than fiction.

Time to Say Goodbye

I can't believe she's leaving me.

Self-centered as that may sound, Rebecca's impending departure has hit me hard. So hard, in fact, that I left Miami for a period of time myself, heading north to Orlando to enjoy Labor Day weekend at Universal Studios. For awhile, I forgot about my own troubles, focusing instead on all the fun to be had on both the main park as well as the Island of Adventure.

But on the drive back, everything came to the surface once more. Why Rebecca's move has me in the doldrums I can't say. Of course she's my friend -- hell, she was more than that. She was my first college "girlfriend", the person who got me into escorting. Interestingly enough, she's now the person that's trying to convince me to leave it.

Where she's exactly moving to I can't say -- only that it's up north (north as in Chicago, not Orlando or Tallahassee) and that she's looking forward to it. I'm not angry, just... hurt. Disappointed. Sad. Of course I know that I shouldn't be feeling these things, that Rebecca is free to live her life as she sees fit, and that as a friend I should be congratulating her decisions and endeavors.

After speaking with both Adam and Bailey (though more so Adam; he lives right near me), I think I have a working hypothesis as to why this whole ordeal is kicking my ass. With Rebecca now gone -- and the fact that she also plans on leaving escorting in the New Year -- the reality is that one day, I'll have to do the same.

I won't stay in Miami forever. An despite the fact that men have a much longer lifespan in the business of high-end prostitution than women do, I won't be a gigolo forever, either. But what would I do? That's the scary part -- because at this point, I really don't know.

Having sex for a living is low on time and rewarding in pay. Should the economy begin to recover, would I look for a traditional nine-to-five at an office? I can't see that happening. The independence, flexibility and even creativity I've cultivated as a result of escorting would have to be sacrificed should I enter the traditional working world. So, what does that leave me with?

I'd still be an entrepreneur -- just not one involved in sex work. Could I truly take a "sanitized" job where sex is something off-topic and even taboo? Will I have to begin wearing a mask to present myself as a respectable citizen of society in order to maintain the status quo, not to mention avoid rocking office politics?

Time will tell, I guess. But if Rebecca's announcement taught me anything, it's that escorting isn't meant to last forever. And, lastly, it showed me that my feelings for her will stronger than even I anticipated. That hurt most of all.

Belle de Jour: Secret Diary of a London Call Girl

For those who don't know, Belle de Jour: Secret Diary of a London Call Girl was (and still is) a blog written by a London-based escort. Under the nom de plume of Belle, she wrote about her life as a high-end escort in London, and all the trials and tribulations that went along with it. From clients who could ejaculate to hiding her profession from friends and family, Belle shed light on the world of high-end prostitution like no other.

Ever since the blog was complied into a best-selling book, and the book was then turned into a television show on ITV in Britain and Showtime here in the US, Belle has retired from the world of escorting. Currently, Belle is working on future books, keeping in touch with her fans on Twitter, and working a "traditional" job somewhere in England.

I suppose it's inevitable that I received a few e-mails, asking if I either knew Belle, had read her book/blog, or if there were any similarities between us. The questions got me thinking, and I decided to write this entry discussing the similarities and differences between us.

Similarities

• We both love to read. Granted, Belle's taste are much more high-end than mine, but a love of literature was one of the first things that made me like her. Even more funny was Belle's then-agent, who said those who read are always relaxed, and that she (the agent) should read more.

• We're both of Jewish descent. At the risk of revealing too much of my identity, I'll only say that one of my parents is Jewish. I'm not aware if one or both of Belle's parents are Jewish or not. I'd like to think Judaism is what gave us our sense of humor. A stereotype, perhaps, but not a completely untrue one.

• We're both university-educated, not addicted to any controlled substances, and have loving friends and family. In sum, we're not derelicts on a street corner, and neither of us charged anything less than several hundred dollars.

Differences

• Belle made (and still makes) more money than I do. Don't get me wrong -- escorting has provided a nice life for me, but men simply don't command the kind of money that women do. Unfortunate, but understandable. That being said, women do work harder in this business, so perhaps their higher salaries are justified.

• I've never really had a "bad" relationship. Belle discusses her past relationship with "the boy" and sometimes it's a painful read. What possessed him to treat her like that is beyond me. Nothing physical violent, but still, no birthday present? Calling at the last-minute to invite her on a ski holiday in France? Low class.

• Belle doesn't think marriage and children is in her future. I, however, can see myself getting married -- or at least living with someone permanently. Children, however, that's another story. The thought of them finding out Daddy used to be a prostitute might complicate matters. Still, time will tell.

So there it is. While I doubt Belle knows of this blog, she's definitely an inspiration. And I don't believe for one second that the blog was fake. I doubt a group of bored female journalists could come up with it, let alone a man. Her tale was the genuine article, and the world is all the better for it.

It's about time we escorts starting sharing our stories, isn't it?