She Knew All Along

I told Briana that I’m an escort, which really wasn’t necessary. According to her, she knew all along.

I’m sure the look on my face was a mix of shock and relief. Shock that she’d somehow uncovered the secret that I fight to keep under wraps every minute of every day. Relief that she at least knew what I did for a living, and wasn’t either in tears or throwing blunt objects at my head.

“Honestly, Julian, it’s not that hard to figure out,” she said calmly. “You live in a beautiful apartment and work a lot of strange hours. I figured you were either a drug dealer or a male escort.”

“So what finally tipped you off?” I asked.

“When we had sex, you didn’t act like most guys do. You made everything about me. It was like I was a job. The fact that you showered afterward didn’t help matters, either.”

I never imagined that my work as an escort would somehow impact the way I have sex during my non-working hours. But the more I look back on it, the more I realize that Brianna is right. I really do make sex all about the woman. My needs come second -- no pun intended.

“So, where does this leave us?” I said. “I understand if you want to break things off. Hell, you’re not the first person to do so.”

“Look, I understand that your career choices are none of my business. But… I just can’t imagine being with someone who earns a living sleeping with as many women as he can.”

“It’s not all about the sex,” I snapped.

“No, I’m sure it isn’t. But be real with me, Julian. At the end of the night, the women you’re with want one thing -- and that’s why they paid you to give it to them.”

“Right. Well, at least you’re honest. You can show yourself out.”

Brianna looked hurt at that last bit. She opened her mouth to speak one last time, but didn’t actually say anything. Gathering her things, she walked out the front door of my apartment and left me alone. I’m familiar with that word by now -- alone. It seems my job has a way of fucking up most every romantic relationship I even attempt to embark on.

So, what’s a gigolo to do? I’m not about to quit my job. I’ve pretty much written off the job opportunity up north, even if the recruiter keeps saying they’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Right. I felt like telling her that it’s a lot harder to bullshit a whore than some wet-behind-the-ears graduate.

In light of these recent events, I’ve decided to put a moratorium on romantic relationships all together. No dates, no friends setting me up -- nothing. I have all the sex I want or need at work, and I don’t see the point in setting myself up for failure and discontentment when there’s plenty of that to go around in the first place.

I have a few other cover letter / résumé / writing sample packages to send out via e-mail. All they need is a final proof-read before I send them to a recruiter who, most likely, won’t get back to me. Maybe I’ll still click that send button. Maybe I won’t. Time will tell.

Mes chères études

It seems that students engaging in prostitution isn't exclusive to the United States or Great Britain.

In France, a student known only as Laura D. wrote a memoir entitled Mes chères études -- French for My Dear Studies. While studying at Paris University, the modern-language student found herself short on rent and other bills, and turned to prostitution to keep a roof over her head.

Click here for a link about the book, courtesy of the Times in London.

Her mother and father -- a nurse and workman, respectively -- lived in what is essentially welfare housing, and couldn't afford to send her any money. However, even their meager wages meant that Laura didn't qualify for any student aid, a scenario which is not all that uncommon in either Great Britain or the United States.

While surfing online at her apartment, Laura discovered that sex work has gone online -- that is, potential clients advertise their desires on message boards, hoping to find someone who will provide for them.

From what I understand, Laura is now working at a Paris restaurant, and doesn't want to return the world of sex work. Good for her. Judging from her statements to the press, she didn't find the experience enjoyable, and truly felt victimized by her sheer desperation to keep herself solvent.

As someone who's blessed enough to work in the high-end of this business, I often cringe at some of the stories from those who aren't as fortunate. As I've said before, anyone who answers an ad from a website like Craigslist is asking for trouble. One needs an agent to screen clients and ensure that rates are paid by the hour, often with a credit card number to guarantee such.

Of course, not everyone finds themselves in the high-end of the industry. I never forget just how fortunate I am to be afforded such a privilege, and I detest those who take advantage of sex workers, if not outright abuse them. More than anything, I hope that Laura's story will finally make people realize what I've been saying all along.

Education costs are out of control. Young adults around the world are literally whoring themselves to earn their degrees. I for one would like to see her (generally incompetent) elected officials get off their asses and do something about it.

The Day After

After reading my last blog entry, you’d think Adam had just won the lottery.

He just called me a little over an hour ago. Having just finished work himself, he was settled into his apartment, eager gossip over the latest drama to happen in my life. His questions mostly revolved around what led me to kiss Bailey -- and if I enjoyed it.

“I’m not sure,” I said, halfway laughing myself. “I guess I just wanted to make those girls shut up”

“Did Bailey freak out?”

“He was a little shocked at first, but he laughed afterward, too.”

As Adam and I continued talking, I heard what sounded like zippers in the background. After the first loud bang hit the floor, I assumed that Adam was packing luggage for Thanksgiving. He confirmed my suspicions, telling me that he had a flight early Wednesday morning, and that his family was meeting him at the airport.

“What are your plans?” he asked. “Going back up north?”

“No,” I said. “Staying down here with some friends.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

“Christmas will be enough. Speaking of which, I need to think of what to get my parents. One Christmas and one Hanukkah present. Separate wrapping paper for both.”

“Multi-faith families,” Adam quipped. “They’re the wave of the future.”

“And no matter what the religion, come the holidays everyone gets drunk.”

After I let Adam go finish packing, I began typing this entry. These days, I often type up my entries in Microsoft Word before copying and pasting them into Blogger. I’ve created a folder just for blog entries. It’s called “MAN ABOUT TOWN” and it’s password-protected.

Within this folder is the monologue I’ve prepared for Briana -- the one that will enable me to tell her about my profession. Even looking at the little icon makes my heart race. Come next Monday -- when Brianna returns from the Thanksgiving holiday -- I’ll find out whether she and I have a future.

If not, I’ll probably be depressed for days. After that, however, I’ll be on the mend. If being an escort has taught me anything, it’s compartmentalization. It seems no matter what the trauma, I can deal with it and move on. A very, very useful skill to have.

A Kiss is Just a Kiss

I'm afraid I may have crossed a line with Bailey.

A group of us were out at the Mary Brickell Village this past evening. There are plenty of nice bars and lounges there, to the point where the area has surpassed Coconut Grove in terms of "hipness".

Moving on. What began as a fun night out soon came to an end. People needed to be at work or class the next morning. Soon, it was just Bailey and I. No big problem. He's arguably my best guy friend, and it was nice catching up.

So everything was great -- until his ex-girlfriend walked through the door.

Honestly, that's what happened. What she was doing in Downtown Miami's Brickell district is beyond me. During the course of her relationship with Bailey, she rarely strayed more than a few miles of his apartment. A real home body, that one. Unless it was to drag him to see any number of chick flicks, from Nights in Rodanthe or Twilight.

Bailey spotted her first. He gave me a light slap on the shoulder, then gestured in his ex's direction. I was just as surprised to see her as he was -- perhaps even more so. I told him that we could just pay the tab and leave, if he wanted. Or stay, and just try to avoid contact at all costs.

"Fuck it," Bailey said. "We're staying."

"Good plan."

"She had enough control of my life. Not anymore, though."

Of course, this didn't stop one the ex's friends from coming by the bar and pretending to stumble upon us. The little tart probably thought she was a good actress. Bailey was polite enough to exchange pleasantries. I was not.

"She always said you were uptight," said the tart, referring to Bailey's ex. "Arrogant too. Snotty, as well."

"I think you mean snooty, sweetheart," I said.

"Whatever," she said, huffing. "Later."

When Bailey and I finally made an exit, his ex-girlfriend (who I'm now convinced as serious mental issues) made a point of calling him out. Bailey, rolling his eyes, asked her what she wanted. He had to be up early the next morning, he added. Whatever she had to say, she had to make it quick.

"Jesus," she said. "I see Julian's attitude is rubbing off on you."

"Oh, that's not the only thing I've been rubbing off on him," I said. "You were right, you know. Bailey and I were having an affair."

The ex-girlfriend sneered and rolled her eyes.

"What, you don't believe me?" I asked. "Do you need proof?"

"Fuck off, Julian. This doesn't involve you."

"Don't talk to him like that," Bailey snapped. Then, as he turned to look at the smile on my face: "Julian and I are very happy together."

"I don't know why you're so surprised," I said. "After all, you accused Bailey of being gay the minute your relationship went south. Well, honey, you were right."

Then, for reasons I still don't know, I titled Bailey's face towards mine and kissed him right on the mouth. Nothing open-mouthed, but lips-on-lips contact nonetheless. The gasps from the table of tarts was loud enough to hear, but I doubt the rest of the bar even noticed.

"So, if you'll excuse us," I said, "we really must be going."

As soon as Bailey and I were outside on the street, I erupted into laughter. Bailey -- looking like he'd just seen a ghost -- joined me a few seconds after. What the hell was that? he asked. Have I gone bisexual without informing him?

"No," I said. "I guess my job has just relaxed my sexual politics, that's all. Now come on, let's catch a cab before we run into anyone else tonight."

And catch a cab we did, into the beautiful Miami night.

The Last Supper

Catherine really enjoyed her vacation.

For her last night in Miami, we had dinner at a nice Italian restaurant on Ocean Drive. Most locals can tell you that most restaurants in South Beach -- especially those on the world-famous Ocean Drive -- are overpriced, but everyone has to dine ocean-front at least once.

Taking in the salty air, swaying palms and turquoise water, she lamented the fact that Northern California was so wet and gray for most of the year. Not as bad as Seattle or Vancouver, but far from the sun-drenched playgrounds of Los Angeles or San Diego. I was lucky to live in Miami, she added.

“I often think the same thing,” I said. “Great beaches, great friends, good job.”

She smirked. “That last bit is up to interpretation.”

“Come on, let’s not, shall we?”

“I’m just saying…”

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” I said. “And you know I had that job interview up north. But until they get their act together and call me back for a second interview, I’m staying put.”

“Still nothing? That’s odd.”

I reminded her that I’ve been in contact with the woman from recruitment via e-mail for the past three weeks. She (the recruiter) apologized for the delay, saying that the company is still screening candidates and it’s taken longer than expected. They’ll be in-touch as soon as possible, she wrote. And thanks for following up.

“Well, if they didn’t want you, I doubt they’d bother with any pleasantries,” Catherine said. “So that’s a good sign, right?”

“A job offer with a signing bonus would be better -- but I see your logic.”

When the conversation turned to dating, I finally confessed to having a bit of a crush for the newest woman in my life, Brianna. Catherine immediately perked up, and asked a slew of questions pertaining to our exact relationship status. I answered as best I could.

Yes, she and I have slept together. No, she doesn’t know what I do for a living. Yes, I’ll be telling her soon. No, really -- I have a little monologue typed up and ready to go when I feel the time is right. And that time is rapidly approaching, I added. Part of me is actually quite excited about the confession itself. What a bold experiment.

“Experiment?” Catherine said, her face like she’d just bit into a lemon. “What do you mean, experiment?”

“To see how she reacts,” I explained. “For the first time since I started escorting, I’m going to be completely honest with a romantic partner and see how she reacts. It’s exciting.”

“And if she rejects you? What then?”

“Then I’ll know it wasn’t meant to be. But if she accepts it, well, that can be the start of something completely new.”

I meant every word. Regarding Brianna, I let my heart run ahead of my brain. Before I get too attached to someone who may look at me in disgust when she discovers my occupation, I need to be honest. Enough with the lies, the drawn-out confessions and feelings of betrayal.

Julian doesn’t both with such silly semantics -- and from this point forward, neither will I.

The Stroke of Midnight

Wow -- up before noon on a Sunday. Sometimes I forget what the morning looks like.

Anyway, I had an interesting (and educational, at least for the client) night at work. By the title of this blog post you might think we had sex at midnight, which is true, but it's what happened before that's the interesting part.

I arrived at the client's apartment at around 10:30 p.m. on account of traffic. I'm a stickler for punctuality, but in Miami sometimes one can't help arriving late. Thanks to my agent -- who was kind enough to call ahead and cover for me -- the client didn't seem to mind.

Her apartment was nice. Not five-star or something out of Ocean Drive, but nice nonetheless. I know I've mentioned that I see a lot of wealthy women, but they're not my sole client base. Sometimes I'm known to slum it with the middle- and upper-middle class.

Moving on. The client had paid for a two-hour booking, and I figured we would drink a bit of wine, maybe watch a DVD, then have sex. I was right on those points, but there was something else she wanted me to do. Simply put, she wanted me to masturbate for her.

"Is that all right?" she asked. "I just... I've never seen a man do it before."

"Really?" I asked. "Lord knows we do it often enough. Surprised you haven't caught us by now."

She laughed, blush faintly staining her face. "I asked my ex, but he was too much of a prude to let me. I really don't see the big deal..."

After we made our way into the bedroom, I found myself in a Clothed Female, Naked Male (CFNM) situation. I let her touch my chest, scratch her fingernails against my abdomen, even run her hands through my hair. She complimented the softness of it -- my hair, that is -- and how I "have waves that women would pay good money for."

I lay down on the bed, my back tickled by the soft sheets. Then, reaching down, I begin stroking myself, trying to find the proper rhythm. I didn't want to ejaculate, seeing how the client still likely wanted to have sex. I have a fairly good reboot factor -- usually about five or ten minutes -- but seeing how I was already late, I didn't want to keep her waiting for anything else.

"Tell me what you're thinking," she said. "What you're doing."

"I'm thinking of the time I lost my virginity," I lied. In reality, I was thinking how long I should keep this charade going. "I remember her perfume, the way her hair fell over my chest as she sucked my cock. The way she tasted when I licked her cunt."

The client was cradling her breasts, before one hand vanished between her legs. "Now tell me how you're doing it."

"Start off slow," I said. "Not too rough. Guys don't like that. Squeeze gently, then release. Brushing your thumb across the head of his cock. Let your hand warm up -- or wear rings that are cold. Hot and cold. That's the best..."

I had closed my eyes during this, and when I opened them I saw the client standing nude over me. I ceased masturbating and slipped on a condom. Then, as she sat on my lap, I pressed my mouth onto hers and tasted the wine we both had before.

"Thank you," she said. "Now I know what I'm doing."

"Don't mention it," I said, and eased the client onto her back. "Now we get to the good part..."

Swine Flu

It just occurred to me that being an escort leaves me vulnerable to the H1N1 virus -- also known as the Swine Flu.

When it comes to close physical contact, there's not much closer than sexual intercourse. Thankfully, I haven't experienced any sick clients or even the hint of a sick client. My ladies are as healthy and effervescent as ever, even if some are already suffering from stress from the upcoming holiday season.

So, would I turn a client down is she appeared sick? Probably. I know that might sound harsh, but I have to keep my own health a top priority, you know? Such is the life of any freelance worker. Sure, we can take all the sick days we like, but they will be unpaid ones.

Not much else to report. Catherine and I will be meeting one last time before she heads back to California, so I'm brainstorming activities for us to do. Perhaps we'll go to Vizcaya, a historical bayfront mansion that's open for tours. There's also Fairchild Tropical Gardens, which is just as lush and lovely as it sounds.

I've taken my parents to both attractions and they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Speaking of which, my mother is already pestering me about the holiday season. Seeing how I won't be returning for Thanksgiving -- one couldn't pay me to fly on that day -- she's extra adamant about me being home in December.

I keep telling her I'll be home, even if it's a brief visit. As I said before, any time away from work means a loss of income. And if I'm going to visit Montreal like I want to, I need to take as many bookings as I can get. Fortunately, the approach of winter in Miami means that there will be plenty of snowbirds arriving soon.

That, my friends, bodes very well for me indeed.

Happy Anniversary!

I never imagined being an anniversary present for a married couple.

Now, I realize I've been a little inconsistent regarding how I feel performing for a couple. If one were to read my post entitled "Law & Order SVU: Folly", they would surmise that I'm against performing for couples.

Well... not so much.

After being contacted by the couple in question -- and speaking with them at-length, therefore determining that they're decent people -- I agreed to go along with their request. See, the husband wanted to watch his wife have sex with another man. Little did he know the wife had similar fantasies herself.

We met at the hotel bar. She pretended to "pick me up" and then we headed back to her hotel room where the husband was waiting. For the duration of the night, he watched as I fucked his wife. After I was finished, he joined us in bed and took over, at which point I occupied the small sofa in the suite.

It was strange watching a married couple have sex, if for no other reason that they were so comfortable with each other. No awkward fumbling here, folks -- they were fluid, graceful and clearly knew their bodies well.

Of course the best part of being an escort is being paid, and as I opened the envelope back at my apartment, I realized they'd thrown in a handsome tip as well. So, what does this lesson teach me? Well, perhaps some of my "rules" can be relaxed from time to time if I feel comfortable with the client(s).

I was surprised to receive an e-mail from them. It'd been sent to my agent, then forwarded to me. The couple thanked me again -- particularly the husband, who said he'd learned a few things from watching me fuck his wife. He didn't know she liked having her nipples pinched, for instance.

Thanks to me, now he does.

Details Details

It seems there's been some interest in the post I wrote awhile back, titled The Other Woman.

I've decided her fake name will be Brianna. She and I met during Halloween, when I was dressed as the Phantom of the Opera and she was dressed as Lara Croft from the Tomb Raider series.

We got to talking, and even snuck away for some more one-on-one conversation. Please understand I mean that literally -- we snuck away to the roof deck where we could actually hear each others' voices. No sex on the beach yet, folks.

I asked for her number and got it. A dinner date soon followed, as did a lunch date after that. It wasn't until we slept together that I really felt the desire to be with her on a more permanent and honest basis. I know that sounds ridiculous -- seeing how we've only known each other for a brief time -- but it's true.

While I know astrology is regarded as pseudoscience by some, I do believe in its basic tenants. I myself am a Cancer. Yep, a bleeding-heart, hopeless romantic who is supposed to shun casual sexual contact (ha!) in favor of more steady, monogamous relationships.

Well, astrology got one thing right, at least: I have a habit of falling in and out of love all too easily. Never with a client, but with women outside of work. I'd label this trait of mine as an occupational hazard, but seeing how it never occurs while on the job...

Once she'd completed her graduate degree, she'll be returning up north to look for a job. And after receiving word from my own interview that I'm still under consideration and that the power-that-be will be in touch with me as soon as possible, I think it's safe to say I'm good for a second interview.

Times are a changin', folks. Sometimes, I feel like I'm not really the one in-control of my life. In fact, sometimes I feel like I'm just along for the ride.

The Return of Catherine

She's back.

Catherine -- with whom I had my first serious relationship -- is in Miami on vacation. We'd spoken about a month ago, though I had no idea she was planning a visit. Much as she loves California, South Florida really is beautiful this time of year. Funny -- right when the rest of the country gears up for winter, Miami and the rest of Florida is gearing up for the most beautiful time of year.

I met her at her hotel in South Beach. After spending some time on the sand, we showered, changed and then drove to Coconut Grove for dinner. For those readers who aren't familiar with Miami, Coconut Grove is on the mainland, about a ten or fifteen minute drive from Downtown Miami.

The Grove, as it's called by locals, is a bohemian village situated on the Biscayne Bay, known for its art galleries, restaurants and popularity among students at the University of Miami. There are a few clubs, but many more bars, ranging from upscale to dive.

Knowing Catherine's tastes, I took her to a French restaurant called Le Bouchon Du Grove. Allow me to give this place my sincerest recommendation. The food was excellent, the French waiters attentive and friendly, and the atmosphere was more New Orleans than stuffy Paris. Here is a link: Le Bouchon Du Grove

As we dined on our meals, she asked me what I'd been up to. I told her I'd tell her when we got back to her hotel. She paused, then insisted I tell her right then and there -- and so I did.

Her face was blank, then white, then red.

The drive back to South Beach was tense. But as we entered her hotel room, we spent the next two hours talking (ha -- but you thought I was going to say something else!) things through. She's still not completely happy with my career of choice, but understands why I'm doing it. I even gave her a little card with my blog address on it.

So Catherine, if you're reading this, you're the first woman I ever loved, and I will care for you forever. My career of choice is no one's "fault", and eventually the time will come when I'll leave it for greener pastures.

That time, however, is yet to arrive.

So with Belle de Jour (aka Dr. Brooke Mangnanti) now officially outed and retired, it looks like I'm one of the few anonymous, high-end, blogging escorts left. Belle's shoes are certainly big ones to fill, but I'll do my best to entertain, enlighten and arouse.

Cheers, everyone. And if you're in Miami, stop by Le Bouchon Du Grove!

The Other Woman

Gigolos aren't supposed to fall in love.

It ruins our careers -- literally. Having sex with other women when all you want is the waiting for you at home is enough to send a Man About Town into the unemployment line. I don't want that to happen. I can't let that happen. My apartment and bills and other expenses don't pay for themselves.

Still, that doesn't stop me from actually meeting someone that I really do want to spend more time with. Perhaps that contributed to the bitchy tone of my last blog post about the mermaid woman. Ordinarily, I would be just fine with a client being a little eccentric.

This girl -- I haven't thought of a fake name for her yet -- she's beautiful. University-educated, and currently in a graduate program. Olive skin, long black hair, and no, she isn't Hispanic, but rather Filipino.

And while I'm not truly "in love" with her, the feelings are strong enough for me to wish that I was either employed in a real job or had some other way support myself other than escorting.

Now you know why I took the interview for the "real job" up north.

So for everyone out there who thinks that I'm just a misogynist who somehow managed to make a career out of having sex with wealthy middle-aged women, rest assured that I have problems, too. Perhaps not as dire as other people in the midst of this rotten economy, but problems none the less.

And yes, just for those who were wondering, I have work tonight. Beautiful.

Mermaids

My most recent client seemed to have a mermaid fetish.

Her bedroom had a nautical theme -- blue walls, maritime paintings, a few sea shells on top of the dresser. I've never really encountered this before. Sure, plenty of women like things like candles or fluffy pillows or even a four-poster bed.

But an actual fetish based on a mythological creature? It takes a lot to surprise this whore, but the client definitely succeeded.

"So, mermaids, huh?" I asked, gently touching a sculpture to my left. It was bronze, I think, and was in fact a very nice piece. The mermaid was upright, her hand reaching out, as if reaching for the surface of the water, hoping a handsome human would pluck her out of the sea and take her away forever.

You know, assuming she could sprout legs and all that.

"My husband hates it," the client said. "Luckily, this is my own personal room. Sometimes, when he's home, I still sleep in here."

Christ. A marriage so poor that even when the husband is home he and his wife still sleep in separate rooms? Why not get a divorce and be rid of each other for good?

"That... must be nice. Having your own space and everything."

"It is. He never comes here, so don't worry about leaving any evidence behind."

What the hell? Did she think I was going to ejaculate on the walls or something? While I normally like my clients, this one was a bit... dim. Not stupid -- just not particularly sharp, either.

Still, she gave a fine blow job. And as for ejaculating on the walls, well, that wasn't a problem. Like her beloved mermaids, the client didn't mind something a little salty in her mouth. But it wasn't over then. Oh no -- that would be far too simple. I should have known the mermaid fetish was a precursor for things to come.

To make a long story short, she wanted to fuck in the bath tub, to which I had to refuse. See, all that water and bubbles and slipping and sliding can compromise the condoms I religiously use. So, we fucked in bed, after which I washed her in the tub, bubbles and all. I believe the exact scent was lavender and vanilla.

I don't want to make it sound like I hated this client. I didn't. She had great, real tits and she one of the better tasting pussies I've had the privilege of licking. The fact that I joined her inside the tub for the aforementioned washing seemed to pacify her as well.

After we departed, I entered the cab, and was treated to this little gem from the driver:

"Hey, buddy, do you know you smell like a chick?"

Teen Readers

Well, I did have a sexy entry all typed up and ready to go, but I'm afraid it's going to have to wait.

While combing through my Hushmail account, I noticed that I had another email from a teen reader. It wasn't the first time a teenager had sent me a message, and I doubt it will be the last time, either. It was fairly standard in terms of content -- though I won't be posting any of it here.

What disturbed me about the email is that this reader thought it was somehow trendy or cool to get involved in sex work. From what I can gather, he thought that by reading my blog, he could forego any form of higher education and just became an escort.

No. No. NO!

At the risk of sounding like a complete hypocrite, I will freely admit that I enjoy my work and am glad to be doing it. However, prostitution as a whole is rife with danger, especially for the naive eighteen-year-old right out of high school. There are other factors that make sex work unsuitable for someone in their late teens as well -- mainly a lack of sexual experience and an even greater lack of emotional maturity.

Kids, having sex for a living isn't always glamorous, and sometimes it's downright draining. There have been plenty of times when I was lounging on my sofa in the midst of a thunderstorm, perfectly content to stay in and watch a DVD, only to realize I had to go to Miami Beach and have sex with a stranger.

And once I arrive at the hotel to have sex with said stranger, God only knows what she'll want. Maybe it'll be something tame like missionary. Maybe she wants reverse cowgirl anal. Perhaps both, along with a full-body massage.

Then there's the matter of being able to compartmentalize one's feelings in order to maintain a professional demeanor. In English, you say? All right -- being able to keep your feelings under control so you don't fall in love with a client.

Last but not least, there's also the cold, hard truth: Not everyone is attractive enough to work in the high-end of the business. Escorts aren't homely or overweight or battling acne problems. And should someone with those characteristics try to enter the world of sex work, well, they're going to find themselves on the bottom end of the business.

And trust me, it ain't pretty.

Without the above-average beauty and a good dose of social grace, a prospective escort is going to realize that the client thinks it's OK to treat him/her anyway they see fit. And what is the first thing an escort has to do when they meet a client?

ESTABLISH WHO'S IN CHARGE -- THE ESCORT.

So, teen readers: Please, pretty please, with a whip cream and cherry on top, don't use my blog as a blueprint. Regardless about what your parents and teachers might tell you about prostitutes, most of us do in fact have hearts. And to be quite honest, I'd say we might be even more sensitive than the general population.

I don't want to read about anyone getting hurt -- physically or otherwise. So keep reading, keep e-mailing, but for Christ's sake, do not go head-first into the industry. Without proper guidance, it's a choice you may live to regret.

Sex Work: Fact & Fiction

Before reading this blog post, please watch the following clip on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glA0R8OfHrk

Finished? Good. I stumbled across this clip last night, and still don't know what to think of it. Garren is a great looking guy, sure, but he comes across as more of an actor that a genuine escort.

That, and no escort worth the condoms and lubricant they bring to the appointment would reveal themselves on television. Why, you might ask? Well, the IRS can wreak havoc on one's life, seeing how escorts aren't usually the keenest about filing their taxes honestly.

Secondly, there's the whole matter of letting one's family and friends know they're a sex worker -- let alone any future employment outside the sex industry. Parents can be especially touchy, thinking they've "failed" their children when they found out that they've become whores.

So what is this segment of the Tyra Banks show really about? If anything, it proves that women are far less judgmental of men than they are of each other. It's a shame, really. The general population of women could learn a lot from female escorts, if only they'd let go of their preconceived notions and just listen up.

Me? I'm just here for the ride -- literally. And what a ride I had last night at work...

Women Who Need a Gigolo

Many women in the world could use a gigolo in their life.

The following list was compiled while I was stuck in traffic this past week. While the beach was heavenly, traffic on I-95 during the ride home was not.

But enough complaining about traffic; it’s not as if I live in Los Angeles. Hell, I haven’t been there since I was sixteen. Onto the list!

Jennifer Anniston.

Ms. Anniston is also one of the women over forty I would gladly spend the night with. Unfortunately for her, she seems to have a hard time keeping hold of a man. Lucky for her, escorts such as myself are hired on an hourly basis, meaning we can just have our fun and part when the hour is over. I’d gladly help her rehearse her lines for any upcoming film projects, too.

Ann Coulter

I never said I would take the booking -- just that she needs one. After watching her on FOX News (or is that Faux News?) this past weekend, it’s quite clear she needs to get laid as soon as possible. True, her vagina is probably more barren that Sadam Hussein’s palace, but sex releases endorphins, which help cultivate good emotions. A little kindness would go a long way with her and the rest of the radical right-wing of the GOP.

Jessica Simpson

Not sure if I would take this booking or not. If one were to read the tabloids, they would surmise that Jessica is a needy, insecure and downright suffocating partner. While I’m sure that Nick Lachey was no real prize either, he really did emerge from the divorce in a better light than Jessica did. But she seems to have a good heart, and as long as that creepy father of hers was far, far away, I’d probably accept the booking.

Do Nice Guys Finish Last?

Do nice guys really finish last?

If one were to follow pop culture, nice guys go through hell before finally landing the girl -- once she realizes her mistake, of course. The plot is simple: Girl falls for some macho idiot, sacrificing her friendship with the kind, dependable and loving man she’s known all along. Then, right as she’s about to marry the aforementioned idiot, she realizes her mistake, and returns to the friend (who’s been in love with her the whole time) and lives happily ever after.

And in the real world? I’ve been an escort long enough to hear plenty of women lament marrying their husbands. Some did it for money, or to fulfill some sort of social expectation (more often than not, marrying a man because he was in the proper social class, came from a “good family” and would provide her with everything she thought she needed in life).

Needless to say, if these women are paying several hundred dollars an hour to have sex with me, the state of their marriages is rather poor. Eventually, many do in fact divorce their husbands. Most receive either alimony or a lump-sum settlement, even if they’d signed a pre-nuptial agreement. Unfortunately, this often leads them to move away, which means I no longer see them.

I wish them well, of course. But it wasn’t until this happened more than once that I realized that my career is dependent on women being unhappy in their marriages -- and staying married to their douche-bag husbands in the process. Where does that leave me? It seems the best thing for these women to do is file for divorce, but that also means I will (in some cases) lose them as a client.

Divorcées provide steady, well-paying and surprisingly enjoyable sex. Most are in their mid-forties, know what they want in terms of sex, and are far more experienced and skilled than their twenty-something counterparts. In sum, I enjoy seeing them at work, and welcome the chance to be with as many of them as possible.

But once they find true happiness -- or rather, reclaim their marital independence -- it’s time to say goodbye. And while “Time to Say Goodbye” is one of my favorite songs (Sarah Brightman’s entire catalog is quite impressive, actually), sometimes it’s hard to face the music.

Oh, and before I forget, things look good for a second interview for that “real job” I mentioned before. As soon as I make the flight reservation up north, I’ll be sure to make an announcement.

The Rush

Last night, Tuesday, November 3, 2009 was my first night back at work since my job interview up north.

It felt good to be back in the heat of Miami, hearing the ocean roar in the distance, as the wind pushed through the palm trees overhead. There's truly nothing sexier than South Beach at night, with the neon lights glowing in a florescence of blue, pink and yellow.

Candles flickered on the tables of the restaurants at Ocean Drive, as the young and the old and the beautiful of all ages drink, eat and laugh to their hearts' content. Walking through this urban playground en route to the client's hotel is nothing short of inspiring.

More than anything, I get a rush from this job that can't be replaced. What will the client be like? What will I be doing with her, sexually speaking? Maybe I'll get a nice tip, sometimes as large as my fee itself.

I arrive at the hotel and take the elevator to one of the upper floors. Locating the client's room, I take a deep breath, knock on her door, and see that again, she's pretty attractive. After kissing her cheek and entering the suite, I help myself to the bottle of wine she had delivered to the room, pouring us each a glass of Merlot.

"Cheers," I said, and click her glass with my own. "So, you mentioned you're on vacation? How are you liking Miami so far...?"

Before long, we're naked, sweaty, rolling in the sheets like a couple of college kids after a bout of midterm exams.

I relished her cried as I spread her legs and went down her, sucking her clitoris and licking her in long, lazy strokes. Moving my mouth away, I penetrated her with my fingers, gesturing for her to "come here" in a rather well-known technique. I couldn't help but lick my fingers clean after the act was finished, and made a put of making her watch me do it.

Right as my knees were beginning to burn from being on the carpeted floor for too long, I was about to mount her when she pressed a hand against my chest. Then, with a smile more wicked than any witch of the west, she rolled over and told me to fuck her from behind.

Not doggie. She wanted anal.

"Are you sure?" I asked. A lot of women think anal will be something it isn't. It takes time, patience, lubricant.

"Yes," she replied, almost impatiently. "I'm ready."

The lubricant was one of the better brands available. I took things slowly, probing with one finger, then two, then three. By the time my cock burrowed inside of her, we'd found a mutual rhythm, until we both finally came -- almost in a rapture, actually. Quite the climax.

We lay in bed for awhile before I went to the bathroom to clean up. With the condom disposed and the lube washed from my fingers, I returned to the bedroom and began to dress. The client seemed a bit disappointed, but she knows the drill: I only stay for the hour.

Beach Day

Celebrated my return to Miami by spending the earlier part of this afternoon at the beach.

There's something luxurious about laying out in the sand, gazing at the turquoise water, knowing that many other parts of the country are experiencing the first frost of the season. Still, the autumn weather back home was quite nice -- though I don't envy them come winter!

I invited Adam along to my little beach day, as I tend to get bored if I'm out there by myself too long. He joined me, and wanted all the details about my job interview. I told him what I could -- that if they want a second interview, I'll hear from them within the next two weeks -- and then turned the tables to him.

"Anything new with you?" I asked.

"Well," he said, avoiding eye contact. "I've been seeing some new clients."

"Really? So, who are the lucky women?"

"Not women," Adam said. "Men."

That was something I didn't expect to hear. Though Adam is gay, he's been seeing women exclusively since he began escorting. The way he explained it, the money offered from men was too good to pass up. And seeing how he "likes dick" anyway, it's not as if adding men to his client list is a burden.

"It's been pretty good so far," Adam continued. "Most of the guys are either married closet-cases, or just guys with no time for a steady relationship."

"That's what Rebecca used to say about her men," I said. "Either they were married or no time for a girlfriend. I guess that's true of men in general, regardless of sexual orientation."

Adam shared a few more details -- mainly that his agent wasn't opposed to his seeing men, but that there was no real mention of it on his online profile. Should the men call the agency and request Adam, he would oblige, after the obligatory screening process. However, he wasn't actively advertising the fact that he's know a bisexual gigolo.

Most likely, his female clients would be upset -- and as I well know, angering a woman is a stupid thing to do.

"Have you ever thought about it?" Adam asked. "Seeing men, that is?"

"Of course," I replied. "I just don't think I'd be able to bring myself to do it. Even with the money -- I mean, I could double my income -- I just don't know If I'd be game. And the last thing anyone needs is another lousy lay."

"If an escort can't give a client an orgasm, who can?"

"Exactly," I said. Then, because I am in fact quite juvenile and just had to ask: "So tell me, who's on top?"

No Respect

Forgive me while I rant for a moment.

In an era when everyone and their mother likes to gripe about how entitled young people are today, I'd like to know what exactly us members of Generation Y are entitled to. Jobs? Yeah, tell that to the Class of 2009. Health insurance? Nope -- young people under the age of thirty are the largest group of uninsured in the country.

A future full of possibilities? For many, the advent of globalization has eliminated such rosy predictions -- especially in the fields of engineering and computer science. Bill Gates can talk about education reform all he likes, but as long as Microsoft continues to import workers using H1B Visas, Gates is nothing but a bloody hypocrite.

For those who are new to the blog, I got into escorting when getting a "regular job" after college became too elusive for my liking. Thanks to my friend Rebecca -- herself a former escort -- I was able to get an agent who sent me out fairly quickly. The money was (and still is) good, the clients nice, the sex constant and surprisingly varied.

Still, the fact that I ended up having sex for a living when I am so "entitled" and "demanding" and "narcissistic" should indicate that something is amiss in how people view Generation Y. And no, I don't think blogging is evidence of my alleged narcissism. If anything, blogging is vital to my psychological well-being. It's not as if I can talk openly about my profession. I lie to most everyone I know -- including my own parents.

Lastly, I consider myself fortunate. That's right -- the gigolo with a heart of gold and a reasonable command of the English language thinks he's lucky. Lucky that I managed to find steady, well-paying work that leaves me with enough time to at least entertain the idea of reentering the job market if and when the economy improves.

I'll know within the next two weeks if the firm I interviewed with last week is interested in a second interview. If so, I'll certainly oblige them. If not, well, with winter coming up, I'll have plenty of clients here in Miami.

(Bailey, in his infinite and hilarious wisdom, suggesting going to Little Haiti and getting a Voodoo course against the company should they not hire me. An interesting proposition to say the least -- one I may try just for the hell of it.)

But seriously, folks, give young people a break. By and large, they're unemployed, burdened with student debt, living without health insurance and preparing for a future without Social Security and employer pensions. It's a brave new world out there -- and it'll be up to them (or rather, us) to live in it.

Back in Miami

I'd never flown before on Halloween, and as I expected, it was business as usual at the airports. Upon arriving home, I showered, shaved, then changed into my Halloween costume and headed to South Beach for a night of fun.

For the record, I was the Phantom of the Opera -- minus the disfigured face, of course. As the night wore on, my cape became more and more burdensome, until I finally took it off and draped it over a chair. I would have left without it had a kind bartender not reminded me to pick it up.

But onto the real meat and potatoes of this past week. As I mentioned before, I had an interview for a "real job", and I think it went reasonably well. Of course, people in Human Resources are notoriously hard to to read -- and with good reason, I suppose. However, the woman was kind enough to give me her card and tell me that she had just begun her first round of interviews.

If the company is interested in seeing me again, she added, they would let me know within the next two weeks. So, I suppose all there is to do now is wait. Of course I sent a thank you e-mail, reiterating my interest in the position and (briefly) stating how my skills and background would be suited to the job.

So, should the position be offered to me, does that mean I would leave escorting permanently? Perhaps not...

While I was in the city, I received a call from a regular client of mine. Normally, she spends January through June in Miami, while the rest of her time is spent up north. She just wanted to talk. See how I was doing. She never expected that I would be in the same city as her.

And so she asked if I was available for sex.

I obliged. Sitting in the cab after the night was finished, I pondered whether or not escorting part-time would be feasible, assuming I moved up north permanently and began working at a nine-to-five job. The additional income would be great. As would the constant sex.

Still, the potential hazards are also present. Keeping my dual identities separate would be a challenge, let alone what would happen if my two personas were to ever meet. Having sex with a client one night and then waking up to realize that same client is also a client at the firm I'm working at would be a total nightmare.

A total nightmare, but not all that likely. And after working as a gigolo for over a year now, I don't feel I'll be able to abandon the profession completely. At least not immediately. A man has needs -- that's all I'm saying.