Erotica VS Pornography

I've been meaning to write this entry for awhile. As usual, I came home from work tonight, showered and changed into my pajamas. Alas, I never seem to get to sleep before 3 a.m. on weekends anyway, so I might as well get my blog post over and done with.

So, what is the difference between erotica and pornography? Some deem that anything pertaining to sex (or rather, depictions of sexual relationships) is indeed pornographic. Others believe that the difference between erotica and pornography is all a matter of taste -- that is, erotica is classy while pornography is tasteless.

My views on the subject? Well, they're certainly complex. Allow me to say that I don't believe my blog to be pornographic -- despite its graphic written depictions of sex. I believe (and hope others do as well) that my writing is good enough that it transcends "prurient interest" and gives the reader something more.

True, many of my blog entries don't have any sexual content at all, but honestly: this is a blog about my career as a sex worker. From fisting and rimming to anal and oral, there's a lot that minors shouldn't (necessarily) be reading here! So, is it possible that something can be both sexually graphic and not pornographic?

I think it all comes down to presentation and execution.

Jenna Jameson, for instance, made a career as a pornographic actress. Her films, in my opinion, are pornography. Jenna has sex with men on-camera and the subsequent intercourse is then filmed and distributed via the Internet and DVD. There's no real art to them. Jenna is penetrated in a variety of orifices to stimulate sexual arousal in men (and perhaps women) around the world.

So yes, Jenna Jameson's body of work can be deemed pornographic -- specifically because the films show actual sex. That is, the viewer can witness the man's penis enter Jenna's vagina. That's sex, folks. Nothing more. As such, that meets my personal definition of pornography.

Now, if a film with an actual plot were to also feature actual penetrative sex, would that be deemed pornography as well? I truly don't know. I vaguely remember hearing that Chloe Sevigny of HBO's Big Love performed oral sex on a man in a independent film. As far as I know, this independent film has remained an independent film. It's not being sold any adult video stores or anything.

Other sexually graphic films include Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut and A Clockwork Orange. I also believe that David Lynch's Blue Velvet was subject to controversy during its release, as were the classic French films Last Tango in Paris and my much-beloved Belle de Jour.

Still, these films have artistic merit. That can't be said for the works of Jenna Jameson or Tera Patrick. Understand that I'm not aiming to degrade and/or criticize these ladies' work. All I'm saying is, "Not everything that involves sex is necessarily pornography."

But let's have a visual aid, shall we?

Now, I'm not linking to any hardcore porn. Cheesy as it sounds, I want to keep this blog relatively clean. So let's take it down a notch and talk about "softcore" images, the kind of thing one would see in PLAYBOY magazine. Full disclosure: the following photos are full nudes and should not be viewed at work.

Janine Habeck (Miss September 2006) -- Photo 1

Janine Habeck (Miss September 2006) -- Photo 2

Janine Habeck (Miss September 2006) -- Photo 3

So, these photos are certainly stylish. Tasteful, even. And, obviously, Janine is a woman who looks great naked. However, let's compare it to what some might deem to be more artistic nudes -- ones that aren't created for the purpose of arousing men.

Artistic Nude 1

Artistic Nude 2

Artistic Nude 3

Notice a difference? While neither of these photos are obscene -- in fact I think they're all beautiful -- one can easily discern which ones are for men and which ones are for artistic expression. The fact they all three feature a female in a state of undress seems almost besides the point. It's the presentation and/or execution that makes a difference.

In sum, I hope this post was a worthwhile foray into the debate of Erotica vs Pornography. And now, my dear readers, I am going to sleep!

Slept With My Friend

Simone and I had sex. That, however, was expected. It's the circumstances that it occurred under is what's really interesting.

If you go into the archives of my blog, one will find an entry called Insomnia. This entry explains how I got involved in escorting -- the Cliff's Notes version being that a friend of mine named Rebecca used me as a sex partner for a man who wanted to watch two people fuck in his bedroom.

Voyeur fantasies aren't that uncommon. I had sex, got paid, and liked it. I've been sleeping with women for cash ever since.

When I learned that Simone and I had a booking together, I knew we were finally going to have sex. No big deal, really. It's not like I'm a virgin (ha!) and Simone is certainly a good catch. What I wasn't expecting -- not in a million years -- was that the client we would be having sex in front of...

That's right, it's the same man Rebecca and I met with almost two years ago.

Seeing him again was a shock. To quote Dr. Magnanti herself, a "perfect storm of emotions" began to brew inside of me. Nostalgia; hesitation; fear; excitement. Simone herself was taken aback over my reaction. According to her, my face flushed red and I was even beginning to stutter -- not like me at all.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I know this guy. Don't worry; he's cool. It's just... I'll explain later, all right?"

"All right."

As for the client himself, well, his tastes haven't changed much. He led us into the bedroom and then gave us instructions. Before long, Simone was wearing nothing but a pair of panties and I was down to my boxers. The client sat in his leather chair, still satisfied by merely watching.

"Okay," the client said. "Now, take her panties of and eat her pussy."

He's nothing but honest. I did as he asked. Once Simone's panties were around her ankles, I moved between her legs and parted her lips with my fingers. She was wet, which I suppose was a good sign. And after a few strokes of the tongue, she only grew wetter.

I stroked my hands along her thighs as I continued. And when she bucked her hips against my mouth, I reached under her legs, seized her ass and brought her closer, truly relishing the taste. And when I puckered my lips around her clitoris -- using just the faintest brush of my teeth -- I was rewarded with the first moan.

When I was finished, Simone attacked me with a vengeance. The first thing she did was kiss me on the mouth, her tongue reaching halfway down my throat in the process. I could only imagine how she felt, tasting my own mouth with her own flavor. Before I could react any further, she flipped me over onto my back, kissed down my chest before closing her teeth around my right nipple.

I cried out. It hurt, but in a good way.

Soon my underwear was off quicker than a freshman girl at her first frat party. Her mouth was warm and wet and gripped so tightly around my cock I thought I'd might ejaculate. She sucked in long, torturing strokes, her tongue moving up the shaft before swirling around the head. She broke off only to use her hand, and then moved her mouth around my testicles.

She wasn't done yet. I firmly believe she was testing me last night -- seeing how much I could take without spilling. After sucking my cock and my testicles, she then proceeded to skim her breasts against my own bare chest (something she knows drives my crazy) before collapsing them around my cock.

The friction was maddening. Still, I held on. Thank God.

Any whore worth the money he/she is being paid will bring all the necessary materials to a booking. For Simone and I, that was condoms and lubricant. As for the client, well, he finally give his final wish.

"Fuck her," he said. "Anal."

I slipped on a condom and then reached for the lube. After unscrewing the cap, I poured a generous amount on my right index finger and then situated myself behind Simone. I worked my way in, gentle, until I finally penetrated her and we worked our way to a good, satisfying fuck.

I came first -- not unusual -- followed by Simone. We fell onto the bed, sweating and panting but still high from the euphoria that sex provides. So, aside from having sex with Simone, what was the highlight of the evening? Why, getting paid of course, but that was a bit different this time.

My agent, in a move of brilliance, decided to charge the client Simone's rate times two. This means that I was able to pocket what one of the girl's makes in a booking, which is higher than my normal rate.

I got laid, got paid, and got paid damn well. What's not to love about this job?

J.D. Salinger Death

In honor of J.D. Salinger, author of the The Catcher and the Rye and Franey & Zoey, I figured it's time for another post about my adolescence. Specifically, how my best friend and I fell out of touch -- something I still regret to this day.

As readers of my blog well know, I lost my virginity in a blur. No dramatic music or candlelight -- just a bit of alcohol and a willing partner. She was more experienced than I was, of course. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: For a young guy, having a more sexually mature partner is great. Takes the pressure right off. She told me what she wanted and I did my best to give it to her. Simple.

The not-so-simple part was that this partner happened to be my best friend's sister.

I know, I know. Not that big a deal, right? Somehow, it was. I'm a firm believer that friendships and sexual relationships can and will combine when the timing is right. How many of us have ended up in bed with someone who was only one or two degrees away from a friend, family member or loved one?

Moving on. My best friend was a girl, as was her sister, obviously. So, after I slept with the sister (it didn't last long, trust me) the best friend walks in on us. Not exactly what I was hoping for. Hell, at the time I think I would have even preferred her mother to have walked in than my best friend.

She closed the door immediately. I got dressed, then ran out into the hallway saying I could explain. As for what exactly it was I would have explained, I have no idea. I'm assuming that "Hey, your sister's hot and it's about time I had sex" wouldn't have cut it.

To her credit, my best friend was understanding -- to a point. She said she was surprised, shocked, a little creeped out. I don't know why, exactly; she and her sister are fraternal twins, so we were all the same age. Now, I know what everyone must be thinking, so allow me to explain:

No, I don't believe my best friend was interested in my romantically.

Understand that she and I, on many occasions, had actually slept in the same bed without any sex happening. In fact, some even assumed I was her obligatory Gay Best Friend. Perhaps she thought that I would extend the amount of kinship to her sister -- which obviously didn't happen.

I haven't spoken to my former best friend in almost three years. Sad, really. As for her sister, well, we dated briefly but it fizzled out shortly after. And while I like to think that I haven't been "scarred" or "damaged" by any relationships I've had in the past, I can't ignore the obvious.

Is it a coincidence that most of my relationships after high school have been with older women?

Am I somehow trying to avoid the "trauma" of my first time? Do I subconsciously harbor negative feelings about what happened? Do I fear that should I get close to someone in my age range, that it could end up costing me something?

I don't have a Ph.D in Psychology, so I really can't say. All I can do is continue to write until I feel like I have nothing left to share. So stay tuned, everyone. Because tonight at work, things are going to be very, very interesting.

Something New

Let's talk about interracial dating.

No, Simone isn't black. A few people have asked me that, but she isn't. Still, many people assumed as much, and then asked me how I felt about interracial dating, if I had dated outside my race before, or even if I "prefer" one race to another.

First of all, I don't like the word "race". It's scientifically inaccurate, because we humans have far more in common biologically speaking than most want to admit. The word "race" should really be replaced by "ethnicity" or something along those lines -- but I digress.

I've dated outside my race quite often, particularly with Asian- and African-American women. Of course when I came to Miami, I also dated plenty of Hispanic girls as well. In each of these circumstances I experienced something new, whether it was food, holidays or other customs different than my own.

It's always interesting to see how others react when the prospect of interracial dating comes up. Some embrace it, others say nothing, while another small demographic crack crude jokes. An additional segment ask questions, asking whether I'm "frustrated" with members of my own ethnicity or purposely seek out women that are "exotic" in some way or another.

I answered no on all accounts. Dating has never been fueled by frustrations of any kind, and ethnicity is the last thing on my mind while choosing a prospective partner. That being said, dating outside my ethnicity is an interesting experience -- one that I do recommend to others. Yes, you read that correctly, I recommend it.

I firmly believe that the more we learn about one another in this world, the less prejudice there will be. Simple as that, really. So please, my dear readers, remember color is just that -- color. And if you enjoy my blog, well, what if I were to tell you that I happen to be of a mixed ethnic background myself?

Violent Girls

Simone reads this blog; I know that for certain. My agent, however, does not, nor does she know I have one. At least not that I'm aware of. I suppose if she knows I'm blogging she doesn't really care -- but Simone does.

"I know what our agent was talking about," Simone said. "The event in my past that has her worried."

"Oh? Well, let's hear it, then."

Simone took a breath. "I mean, I'd never do it to you, because you're not that kind of person. And I was angry at the time, and I completely regret my actions--"

"Simone, really, just stay it."

"I kind of broke a beer bottle over my ex-boyfriend's face."

Well, that certainly made for an awkward pause. The way she tells it, Simone caught her ex-boyfriend stealing money from her. Cash, using her credit cards, he even took a few gold rings and pawned them at a seedy joint downtown. When she found out and confronted him about it, he denied it.

"That's what really set me off," she added. "The fact that I had all the evidence, practically caught him red-handed, and he still denied it."

"Some people will lie until they're blue in the face," I said. "But go on..."

"I told him to get out of my apartment and not come back. I was going to call my super, have him barred from the building. I'd mail him his stuff. And of course I was going to call the cops and my credit card companies."

"So I'm guessing he freaked out over that?"

"Pretty much," Simone said. "It was the last time I dated a fucking musician, I'll tell you that. As for the beer bottle, well, it just sort of happened. When he wouldn't leave, I picked it up and started waving it at him."

"And he didn't back down."

She shook her head. "He came rushing towards me and I kind of just swung my arm. I caught him right across the face and the glass shattered. He had a few shards in his cheek, and obviously there was a bit of bleeding."

In sum, Simone called an ambulance and let the EMTs take him to the hospital. She got the charges canceled on her credit cards, and her boyfriend was slapped with several charges ranging from fraud to identity theft. And, after a few thousand dollars' worth of cosmetic surgery, his face was fixed.

"Where did he get the money?" I asked.

"Probably his enablers."

"Enablers?"

"Parents," Simone said. "So, there you have it. My big, dark secret."

"Well, I certainly know to never commit credit card fraud with your name."

"Damn straight."

Horrible as this situation sounds, I still can't help but be intrigued by Simone. This little petite girl, so smart and apparently with a lot of fight with her, working as an escort just like me. And while I appreciate all the compliments about my intelligence and all that, trust me: Simone's the smarter one between us.

"So, are you excited for this Friday night?" she asked. "Sounds like a lot of fun."

I nodded in agreement. "Sex, money, good co-workers. What more can I ask for?"

Lunch With the Boss

Right, so I met with my agent this afternoon to discuss anything and everything pertaining to my career. Business was picking up, she said, which meant I may become busier in the coming weeks. I definitely didn't object. If anything, an uptick in clients would be good for libido and my bank account.

"You and Simone are working together this Friday night," the agent added. "So remember, be at [a specific meet-up point] by six o'clock."

"I have it in my Blackberry," I said. "You know me and punctuality."

"There's something going on with you two, isn't there?"

I had just bitten into my sandwich when the agent said those nine words. Like a teenager who'd returned home past curfew, I played it coy. No, nothing at all. Just friends, actually. Similar interests in books, films, that sort of thing. Nothing for her to be worried about -- goodness, no!

"Julian, stop it," the agent said. "I don't object to it. I just want you to make sure you know what you're getting yourself into."

"What do you mean?"

The agent paused, took a sip of water and then continued. "You have a habit of getting involved with other escorts. Rebecca, now Simone."

I rolled my eyes, wondering if Adam had secretly spoken with my agent. Unlikely, as he works with another agency in another part of town, but still. So, in lieu of acting like a teenage boy any longer, I simply told me agent what I told Adam: That friendships and relationships with other escorts are simply easier for me to maintain.

"I don't have to lie or hide anything," I added. "Surely you understand."

"Of course. But Simone... she's a tricky one. There's a lot about her you don't know."

"Really? Well, feel free to--"

"Actually, I'd rather not. You should really find out for yourself."

It wasn't like my agent to be this cryptic. Normally she either calls, e-mails or texts me the information for my clients. I meet them at a predetermined location, get my money, then have sexual relations with them. I pay my agent her commission on a weekly basis. Other than the occasional lunch, it's not like we see each other all that often.

"Okay, now you're making me worried," I said. "I know you wouldn't have hired Simone if she wasn't safe to be around."

"Of course not. Still, her past... Look, I've said too much already. Oh, and don't worry about the bill. My treat, all right? Just don't tell any of the other girls."

And so we ended it there. Again, I have no idea what the agent was alluding to, and I'm certainly not going to bring it up with Simone. I suppose I'll find out eventually -- perhaps this Friday night, when we meet up for another joint business venture.

Until then, stay tuned.

Food and Sexuality

Sure, a lot has been said about cherries and chocolate and even oysters and clams. And while all of those things are fine and dandy, they pale in comparison to baked goods -- at least in my opinion.

There were a few unusual things about last night's booking. For one, she told me agent that I could dress "casually", meaning I didn't need to wear a dress shirt, slacks and and a tie. Showing up like that would just make her feel nervous, she'd said. Fine by me -- I settled on a long-sleeved knit top and my favorite pair of jeans.

From the moment I arrived at the client's front door I could tell she was baking. The smell filtered through the hallway of her condominium and made the whole floor smell heavenly. When she opened the door I noticed that she was in fact not baking, at least not at that moment.

"Come in," she said. "I just got done working -- big event tomorrow."

"Are you a caterer?" I asked. "It sure smells great."

"Thanks. Yes, I have my own business, which thankfully is starting to pick up. Last time this year, though... I almost threw in the towel."

We settled on the sofa and, to my surprise, the client had actually prepared a small strawberry shortcake just for us. It was chilled and the icing and whipped cream was just right -- not to heavy, not too sweet. Against my better judgment I had one piece and then finished off hers, and downed a glass of milk in the process.

"The way to a man's heart..." she said.

"Yeah, yeah. That secret's been out of the bag for years now."

"Actually, I was going to say was through his cock, but you know..."

I smirked. I closed the distance between us and kissed her on the mouth, tasting strawberries and whipped cream in the process. Combining that with the natural taste of a woman's mouth, and well, I didn't want that kiss to end. But end it did, and for something much, much better.

We moved into the bedroom. She lifted my shirt over my head, then pushed me onto the bed. After straddling me, she unbuttoned my jeans and hooked her thumbs into the waist band, and then took them down as well.

"Wait here," she said, as if I might actually leave. "I'll be right back." A two-minute absence followed, and when she returned she was wearing nothing but a pair of panties and had a slew of condiments in her hands. Condiments and more cake.

What followed was almost too strange for words. Yes, we had sex, but she would interrupt the process for more food play. And I know what you're thinking, she must have been a real fat ass, right? No! The girl was tiny. What she did with all those calories is the biggest mystery of all.

"You ready?" she asked. "You look a bit..."

"Let's go. Time to get what you paid for."

She put a piece of cake in her mouth and let me bite the other end of it. I tasted chocolate, whipped cream and woman all at once -- a taste I could definitely get used to. But before I could make a move of my own, she yanked my underwear off and poured chocolate sauce over my abdomen and my erect cock.

Her mouth gripped onto me fast and fierce, sucking me harder than any woman ever has before. I cried out, gripped the bedsheets, spewing a slew of profanities. She finally released me and, grabbing the chocolate sauce, decided to take some initiative.

I drizzled the sauce around the edges of her pussy and teased her before finally eating her out. Her cunt was wet and warm -- just the way I like it. Again, the taste of her combined with the chocolate sauce into something I've never experienced before.

The experience was almost too much; I was worried I would ejaculate prematurely and ruin the fun. So, gripped her by the ass, I lifted her onto her back and took out the condom. Once protected, I plunged into her in one thrust and listened to her scream "FUCK!" at the top of her lungs.

I lay on top of her, pumping and thrusting harder than usual, pausing only when her fingernails dug onto my back and ass. I bent my head down and kissed her once more, letting that heady combination of chocolate and whipped cream and woman fill my mouth all over again.

I came in the midst of the kiss, and after another five minutes or so, she did too. I slid out of her and fell onto my back, mouth covered with crumbs, my chest and abdomen caked with chocolate sauce and whipped cream. The both of us looked like a disaster -- but Christ, that was by far the craziest fuck I've ever had.

I showered and left, then called my agent as soon as I was home.

"Everything all right?" she asked, sounding concerned.

I explained what happened and listened to my agent laugh her ass off. "Well, what do you young guys call an experience like this?"

"Sweet," I said, and laughed. "Yes, this client was definitely sweet."

Neck Cracking

I must have slept funny last night, because I woke up this morning feeling stiff in my neck.

"Not a problem," Simone said. "Lay down on your back and I'll take care of it."

"What, you're a chiropractor now or something?" I said.

"Just do what I say without any wise-ass remarks for a change."

Smirking, I lay down on the bed and waited for Simone to do her thing. She grasped my neck in her hands, and proceeded to move it around in a slow, circular motion. To say this was relaxing was an understatement -- it was absolutely heavenly.

"You have a lot of tension, that's for sure," Simone said. "Nothing I can't fix."

"You didn't answer my question, you know. Are you a chiropractor or not?"

"No, but my ex-fiance was. Relax -- I know what I'm doing."

Normally I would object, but Simone's impromptu session was so relaxing I couldn't muster the will to do so. She stopped moving my neck in a circular motion, and said she knew where the pressure was. After moving my neck to the side, she then flicked her wrist and my neck along with it, culminating in a loud, satisfying crack.

"Jesus Christ," I said. "With a crack that loud I'm surprised I'm still alive."

"We're not finished yet. One more..." She proceeded to do the same thing she'd done before -- move my neck to to the other side, this time the left, and then flick her wrist and release the tension in the joint. Perhaps I'm even more of a sadist than I previously thought, but hearing the crack was amazing.

"Thanks," I said. "I feel better--"

"Roll over onto your stomach." Her tone wasn't that of a request, but rather a demand. "You probably have a lot of tension in your back as well."

Being the submissive that I am, I did as she asked. The fact that Simone managed to crack my neck without killing me had earned my trust in all chiropractic matters. After planting my face down onto the pillow, Simone began to work my back. Again, this felt great.

Although I will say, when she mounted me from behind, I finally got an erection.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, my voice somewhat muffled. "But just so you know, I've got a hard-on."

"Not surprising." She laid her hands onto my upper back, and told me to take a deep breath in then to push it out. I followed her orders, and after I exhaled she leaned in and pressed her weight against my back, which released all sorts of pops and cracks. I hadn't felt so good in months.

"All right," she said. "All done."

I flipped over without even thinking about it. I was wearing jeans, so it's not like my erection was that visible, but still, there was something going on down there. Simone hardly batted an eye -- makes sense, considering she's an escort like me. I'm willing to bet even traditional massage therapists and chiropractors aren't surprised to see an aroused male patient.

"I owe you," I said. "How about dinner?"

"Thanks, but I'm not that hungry."

"I am. You can just watch me eat if you like, or perhaps share a dessert."

She thought it over for a minute. "All right then, but I pick the restaurant. I'm very particular about my chocolate mousse cake."

And so we left my apartment and dined together. Now before anyone can ask, I'll repeat what I've said before: Simone and I have not slept together. Although by the end of next week, that very well might change. Stay tuned...

Friends Reunited

After a prolonged absence, Adam and Bailey are finally back together.

Not that they were ever romantically involved, mind you. But after Adam drunkenly grabbed Bailey's crotch, Bailey wasn't exactly to meet Adam again. At least not alone, without the safety of others.

Please understand that Bailey is not a homophobe. Far from it. Still, he finds it awkward to have a gay man making advances on him, as there is no chance of Bailey returning the favor. With people he knows, however, he's more tolerant. I, for example, kissed him on the mouth to enrage his ex-girlfriend -- and flip she did.

The reunion took place at my apartment. Adam, of course, had to make some crude remarks about the last memorable encounter he'd shared with Bailey. But after a few beers, the mood was noticeably better. In fact, it wasn't long before Adam and Bailey began exchanging stories about me.

"How did you not notice he was escorting?" Adam said. "What, you think working all hours of the night and coming home with fist-fulls of cash is normal?"

"I just assumed he was peddling drugs," Bailey replied. "Not crack or anything -- pharmaceuticals. That's where the real money is these days."

"Right," I said. "I peddle Xanax and other mood stabilizers to all the retirement homes in Fort Lauderdale and Hollywood."

"You know," Adam said, "that might actually be a good idea."

And so the conversation continued, until both Adam and Bailey again ganged-up on me. This time the topic of conversation was about Simone. What was going on with her? More importantly, what was going on with her and I?

"Nothing that couldn't be aired on primetime TV," I said. "We're not in late-night HBO territory yet."

"Emphasis on the word yet," Bailey said. "So, do all escorts date each other, or do you just have a fetish for your own coworkers?"

"Let's change the subject, shall we?" I said.

"Testy," Adam whispered. Then, in a clearer voice: "Still, I think Bailey has a point. Seems the girls you get on with best are other escorts."

"Why is that?" Bailey added.

At that moment I was hoping that Adam would yank Bailey's pants down and start blowing him as to ruin their new-found friendship. I honestly never expected those two to get on so well. Shit, at this rate I should buy a plane ticket to Jerusalem and get started on Israel and Palestine.

"Come on, answer the question," Bailey continued. "You and escorts -- what's the deal?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I guess it's easier when someone knows what I do for a living, that's all."

"So it's not about the fact that you're into all sorts of freaky shit in the bedroom?" Adam asked.

"Considering you and I have never been in the bedroom--"

"Liar!" Adam said. "We did that three-way once."

"Yes, well, that was work. I'm quite different outside work, you know."

"The mystery continues," Bailey said. "I guess we'll just have to keep reading the blog..."

My First Sex Worker

This entry isn't going to be a how-to guide about having sex. Instead, it's going to be about how and when I met my first sex worker -- a former porn star who I will refer to as the Helen.

I was sixteen at the time, and it was thanks to the worldwide web. You see, I used to do a bit of graphic design, having saved up money to buy the now-ancient program Adobe Photoshop LE. With this program, I could begin creating banner ads, desktop wallpapers and other pieces that I could post online.

As for Helen, I saw her before on the Howard Stern show. I was struck by the fact that she didn't seem like the other adult film stars that Howard had spoken with before. For one, her look was a lot more exotic. No blonde hair or blue eyes, nor did Helen have a fake spray tan. That, and the way she spoke of porn was actually kind of interesting.

I went online and found her official website. Nothing too racy, seeing how any porn star worth the lube and condoms she fucks with will charge a fee for the hardcore stuff. I browsed around, then found an e-mail address where fans could contact her. I'd previously made a desktop wallpaper of Helen, featuring some PG-13 shots from a Hawaii photo shoot.

On a whim, I attached the JPEG file to the email and sent it off. This was before the era of malware, when downloading attachments from unknown senders was a sure way to have one's PC infected. About a week later, to my complete surprise, Helen wrote back, telling me she loved what I did and asked if I had any more stuff available.

And so began a little bit of work for more. In exchange for a small fee and some autographed photos, I made Helen several desktop wallpapers, banner ads, a new image on the splash page of her website. I could hardly believe my luck -- and yet the fact that I hadn't told Helen that I was only sixteen gnawed at my conscience.

Eventually, I spilled the beans. Helen was surprised -- she said I sounded so professional over our emails, and my work was good -- but she didn't let me go. Please understand that under no circumstances was I working with any R-rated material. Strictly PG-13 stuff, as Helen was working on leaving porn behind and trying to start a more mainstream career.

So, what's odder than a sixteen-year-old working with a woman who lived across the country and was ten years his senior? The fact that she, in many ways, became a confident, and later a friend.

Every question I had about sex she answered, and she answered them fully. From anal sex to three-ways to the various kinds of condoms and lubricant, there was nothing off-limits. This kind of honesty and candor was refreshing then and it's even more refreshing now, with abstinence-only movements still trying to pretend that they actually yield positive results.

There was humor, too. My most vivid memory is that Helen told me not to worry too much about my first time, as it wouldn't last that long anyway. I laughed so hard over the phone I thought that I would wake my parents up.

(For the record, by the time I met Helen in-person I was pretty much an adult, so it was never an issue hiding it from them. And as for Helen's checks, well, I made some fake ads for a non-existent real estate company, so mom and dad were never any the wiser.)

Helen and I finally met in New York City, had lunch, walked along the shops in Fifth Avenue. We were so comfortable with one another people actually thought we were related -- probably because we shared a similar skin tone and were always close but not romantically inclined. And keep in touch we did.

More than anything, Helen exposed the porn world for what it was -- choreographed sex sold for a profit. The sheer idea that porn was somehow genuine or something to be emulated was so foreign to me that I would never dream of trying to imitate it with a girl.

I learned that most of the men use Viagra. That the girls get breast implants, hair extensions, fake tans and nails, and a Brazilian wax most every month. That there is a director barking orders from a chair, alongside a slew of lighting and sound guys to capture the moment. It's not sexy; it's awkward. It's not a fantasy; it's work.

To most people, the idea of allowing a sex worker to talk to a teenage boy about her former career is unfathomable. Well, I'm here to tell everyone that by doing just that, Helen made sure I would never fall into the trap of thinking that porn was the way to go in terms of forming sexual relationships.

And, above all else, she showed me that sex workers can in fact be well-adjusted and productive member of society. Helen is now married, out of pornography for good, and earning an income from a variety of business ventures and investments she secured for herself while in the adult film industry. Her "porn self" is dead and gone, and she's happy she was able to get in and get out.

We talk now and then. Unfortunately, I'm the one who's now being dishonest with her. She doesn't know I'm an escort. I've no clue as to how she'd react, and I don't have any plans to tell her, either.

Funny. In reading this entry before I post it, I couldn't help but notice something. In a way, I didn't find sex work. If anything, sex work found me.

Spanking Fetish

So, who in their right mind likes being spanked?

Well, me for one. As well as other people around the world. To be more specific about my own tastes though, I suppose it's all rooted in being able to safely experience an otherwise physically "threatening" situation.

Err, allow me to elaborate. Yes, spanking involves pain somewhat. Still, it's not a particularly bad kind of pain. As I've said before, there are different types of pain -- at least in my opinion. The "good" kind of pain is a warm tingling. The "bad" kind of pain involves a deep throbbing.

By submitting myself to a female and having her tan my hide, I can experience a submissive role without any real risk.

So, let's talk about specific situations.

When Rebecca and I were still together, she and I would engage in light S&M quite frequently. It would start off typical enough, with kissing, groping, etc. Soon, however, things got a bit more... interesting.

"Go over to the couch," Rebecca said. "And drop your pants and boxers."

I did as she asked, then bent over. I'd usually take my socks off too, as to avoid wiggling and slipping as Rebecca worked me over. After a moment or two, I would feel the cool leather snake against the flesh of my bare ass, right before the first strike would come down.

It was a shock at first -- the hot stinging across my bare buttocks. Even more shocking was the second, third and fourth blows. I could feel my ass growing hotter and redder with each blow. The sound of the belt cracking against my ass was like something out of Blue Velvet or Story of O.

"Count out loud," Rebecca said, in a voice that was sterner than usual. "Understand?"

"Yes," I said. Another crack of the belt caused a crack in my voice. "Five... Six... Seven..."

We'd usually stop at ten or twelve blows. Without fail, I'd be hard as a rock by the time we were finished, nearly to the point of climax. Once finished, Rebecca and I would head into the bedroom and finish the deal.

So, there it is folks. If anyone else is into these activities, feel free to comment or e-mail me. I'm always interested in other people's experiences.

Lap Dance Lessons

"Julian?" Simone said, having called me on the phone. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Um, all right...?"

"I'm teaching a lap dance class and I need you to be my customer."

To anyone else, this conversation would have sounded insane. Seeing that Simone and I are both escorts, well, it's actually one of the tamer requests I've had in the past two years. Certainly tamer than the time Rebecca asked for me to fuck her in front of a client with a voyeur fetish. Or when one my clients asked me to spank her like her boyfriend used to. Or when I participated in not one, but two orgies in the Florida Keys.

"No problem," I said. "When and where?"

The class was in the late afternoon. Seems that Simone has taken her knowledge of sex work and turned it into a legitimate side business: teaching married women how to give lap dances to their husbands.

I arrived at the space Simone rented to see a room full of women. Not unusual, really. But when Simone introduced me... that's when things got interesting.

"Ladies, this is my friend Julian," she said, and then squeezed my cheeks with her right hand. "Cute, isn't he?"

I noticed several appraising glances from the women -- namely that head-to-toe look of the eyes. Both men and women do this, whether they notice it or not. And when I turned around before taking a seat in the chair Simone had in the center of the room, I could feel the women's eyes burning a hole in my ass.

Simone was dressed almost like a Yoga instructor. Her face was free of makeup, her hair slicked back in a ponytail. The other women were much of the same; none of them looked at this class as a time to get dressed up. They were amongst friends and were eager to take lessons from a young woman who fucks for a living.

Not that the women knew that. To them, Simone is just a university student looking for extra cash.

When I was finally seated in the chair, Simone gave an opening speech about how the dancer was in control. She instructed me to sit on my hands for the time being -- I had a habit of being "grabby" sometimes. The women chuckled at this. I, on the other hand, was trying to determine if I had fucked any of them on the job.

"Now, lower yourself onto his lap, and start moving your hips in a circular motion," Simone said, demonstrating her technique. "Follow it up with your hands. Run them through his hair, graze them against his chest. Do what you know he likes."

The women nodded as Simone continued. A few even took notes on their Blackberries. Blunt as ever, Simone then told them to wait until their husband/lover had an erection before taking anything off. Start with the top, she added. Men just love breasts.

"Isn't that right, Julian?" Simone said.

"Do I really have to answer that?" Again, the women giggled.

"Is he your boyfriend?" one of the women asked.

"Something like that," Simone replied. "Okay Julian, you can't stop sitting on your hands. Wrap them around my waist, then help me lift up my shirt."

Simone wore a sports bra underneath her white t-shirt. A black sports bra to be specific. I always had a thing for the color black, especially when it came to under garments. Had she been wearing stockings and garters, I really would have been aroused.

Still, even having her sports bra-clad tits in my face did the trick. She talked about grazing them against my chest, up towards my face, then finally placing my head against her breastbone. Let it linger there, she said. Then pull back, stand up and turn around. She grazed her hands over her ass, which was as firm and tight as I remember it.

It wasn't long until I had to cross my legs.

Class wrapped up not too long after. My erection, however, wouldn't quit. When the women cleared the room, Simone thanked me for coming on such short notice. I chuckled at the word choice -- coming -- confirming her belief that part of me is still a twelve-year-old boy.

"I don't get you sometimes," she said. "Part man, part boy. Sometimes you're just so damn weird."

"Thanks," I said, with a mock smile. "So, how long did you work as a stripper?"

"Not long. Escorting pays better."

"Got that right. So, what now?"

"Let's grab a bite to eat -- my treat."

"Excellent," I said. "Though somehow, I feel I should paying you."

Again, I made her laugh. I love doing that -- making women laugh. Almost as much as having sex with them. As for Simone and I, well, we're developing into something, that's for sure. And when she reads this blog entry, I'm sure she'll agree.

Dealing with Rejection from Women

There's been an uptick in emails recently, with many people asking me how my emotions play into my work as an escort.

Some have gone so far as to refer to me as a "stud", or at the very least someone who's quite adept with the opposite sex, as well as, well, having sex with the opposite sex. How did I get so confident? Do I ever suffer from insecurity or self-doubt? Was I always this way?

That last question -- Was I always this way? -- got me thinking. Again, it seems I'm stuck in J.D. Salinger territory -- meaning everything goes back to adolescence. And let me tell you, when I was a teenager, Julian didn't exist. I was just the old, boring me. Not an athlete, not a scholar (though I did go on to graduate from a Top 50 University), just kind of... normal.

I remember specifically the first time I was rejected by a girl. It was eighth grade, and she flat out told me that she thought of me as more of a "friend" rather than a boyfriend. Not something a fourteen-year-old wants to hear. And, unfortunately, this was something that would be echoed throughout my high school years.

Towards the end of my senior year, however, something changed. Not just the fact that I lost my virginity in a blur, after a warm spring night led to a bit of drinking and... well, you know.

I got taller, a bit thinner. More confident, perhaps, due to the fact that my wonderful parents took me on trips from New York to Los Angeles. Still, by that point, I wasn't interested in girls -- I was interested in women.

Grown women -- they were the ones I found attractive. Mid to late-twenties, and into the early-thirties. Smart, confident, well-traveled women that could introduce me to a whole new world. I was young, handsome, after all. Looking back, I probably could have sampled the dating pool at my high school a bit more aggressively at that point. And yes, the fact that I had two separate girls ask me to the senior prom was probably a hint that I'd become more desirable.

(For the record, I ditched the senior prom, and asked my parents for another trip to New York City instead. Seeing how it was senior year, they kindly obliged.)

So after I graduated high school and took a bit of time off before starting university, something happened. Her name was Catherine -- the married woman with whom I had an affair. If being rejected in my mid-teens was the price to pay for being with her in the end, well it was worth it. And so, as some of my close friends have theorized, Julian was born.

Bailey is at the forefront of this theory. He's not trained in the social sciences, but he is quite perceptive at times. According to him, Julian was born the minute I, the real me, realized I was desirable to older women. That my youth, kindness, even my "boyish innocence" was something that they found charming.

I suppose it just took moving to Miami so that Julian could spread his wings.

In any event, I still vastly prefer older women. The only exception was Rebecca, and I don't see that happening again any time soon. I might be wrong, of course, but she was something special. Until then, I have plenty of women to keep me occupied. Not girls, women. If being an escort has taught me anything, it's that there's a big difference.

Domestic Violence

I've debated whether to write this post at all, but I think it needs to be shared.

The controversy surrounding the Iris Robinson affair has led to a whole lot of discussions -- from the sanctity of marriage to whether or not it's an outdated institution. Incidentally, I came across a rather startling claim online.

Basically, this poster (who I assume is a woman) said that men benefit more from marriage than women, and that in some cases, a Marriage License is a Hitting License.

That last bit about the hitting took me aback. I've never laid a hand on any woman other than a playful swat on the bottom. And if a woman slapped me, I asked for it (literally, as part of sex play). No domestic violence in my childhood home, either. Though if anything, it would have been my mom punching my dad...

I have, however, seen the effects of Domestic Violence (DV) while escorting. One regular client of mine... her husband used to hit her. Bruises on her arms, shoulders, but never the face. The kind of scum who hits a woman is usually sly enough to avoid leaving any obvious evidence of his crimes.

Of course I asked her about the bruises when I saw them. She was coy, evasive, eager to change the subject. One time, she got so irritated that she shoved the envelope of cash in my face and told me to just leave -- but I refused.

It wasn't until she called me in a panic one evening that I finally called the police. When I arrived at her home, it was obvious that her husband had finally lost it. The bedroom mirror was shattered on the carpet, her clothing torn, a black eye already forming on the right side of her face.

She and I had both thought her husband had fled the home -- and we were right, until he came back home. Funny, once he saw there was another man in the house, he wasn't so eager to fight. Me, on the other hand...

Well, let's just say it was a good thing the cops came when they did. A concerned neighbor had already called before I arrived on the scene. When they questioned me, I said I was her "friend". As best I can tell, they assumed "friend" meant "lover" and not "escort." Dodged a bullet there.

To this day, I struggle to understand why women stay with their abusers or why DV remains such a problem. Well, not so much "why" as "how". Do neighbors really ignore the cries and screams night after night? To friends and family routinely ignore the signs of abuse -- be them emotional or physical? Are women truly scared that life without their abuser will be worse than the life they have with him?

In a time when pundits like to talk about violence against escorts, I can say that the only violence I saw was committed within the institution of marriage. It's certainly food for thought.

Oh, and just so you know, the client finally got a divorce, the husband probation, unfortunately. If there's any justice in the world, he'll violate his probation, end up in jail, and learn what it's like to experience violence firsthand.

Younger Men and Older Women

Several of my UK readers have been kind enough to tell me about the Iris Robinson affair in greater detail. I've also researched into the politics of Northern Ireland, which has quite a tumultuous history. But as I continue to read up on the news (the latest being that Robinson herself has resigned as MP), I can't help but feel that we're ignoring her young man, Kirk McCambley.

Why would a 19-year-old man (though some still call him a boy) seek to have an affair with a 58-year-old woman? Only Kirk knows for sure. Still, there are plenty of reasons why younger men and older women have it on. Below are just a few ideas of my own.

• Opportunity.
  Iris was clearly the person in charge of this relationship. She was older, wealthier, had social and political power. Perhaps Kirk thought that by sleeping with her he could be introduced to a better life -- or even just get a chance at it. Older women often like to nurture and/or assist their young lovers in their careers, and it appears that Iris did just that by giving Kirk the money to start his cafe.

• Sexual Prowess.
  To be frank, older women know what they want -- sexually and otherwise. There's really little guesswork involved. If Iris wanted Kirk to go down on her while he wore her pink, polka-dot knickers, I'm sure she told him upfront. Kirk was equally likely to oblige, as young men often are. Everyone knows how much young chaps like to please. Perhaps Kirk found Iris's honesty refreshing. Seeing how she's a conservative, I'm sure she's a freak.
  

• The Thrill
  Having an affair is often exciting -- even more so when the woman a young man is shagging is a public figure. Kirk knew he was doing something wrong and that he was doing it with someone well-known. All of that can make for a very titillating and addictive experience.
  

Of course, these are just my opinions. Wherever Kirk is, I wish him the best, and I hope he can emerge from this scandal relatively unscathed. As for Iris, well, I say she should donate £50,000 to a gay charity to start making amends.

Iris Robinson Affairs

Seeing how I have quite a few readers in the UK, I've begun to read some of their newspapers. Not the print additions, of course, but the Times London, Daily Mail and the Independent all have websites. It's interesting to see how other countries are coping with the aftermath of the Economic Crisis -- as well as other, more interesting matters.

For my readers in the USA and Canada, here's a brief overview of the scandal that's rocked Northern Ireland in recent weeks: Iris Robinson, an MP (Member of Parliament) in Westminster, had an affair with a young man named Kirk McCambley. It appeared the affair began when Robinson was 58 and McCambley was 19.

Robinson, who stated that she finds homosexuality to be an "abomination" and that gays should seek salvation through Jesus Christ, has apologized for her actions and realizes she says people are paying for her mistakes. Understandably, gay rights groups in the UK are having a field day with the sheer level of hypocrisy Robinson has shown, as she's a noted social conservative.

However, the scandal doesn't end there. Robinson also provided McCambley with £50,000 (about $80,000 US) in order to start his own restaurant. This was confirmed by Robinson's former political advisor Selwyn Black, who resigned from his position before going public with this information.

Robinson's husband, Peter Robinson, has temporarily stepped down from his position as first minster for six weeks to deal with the aftermath of the scandal. Not only did his wife have an affair, but it seems the accusations of money laundering could prove disastrous for his own career.

I've been keeping track of this ordeal as best I can. It's failed to make much of a splash here in the American media, though the New York Times did run a feature on Peter Robinson's leave of absence. Of course, the question on everyone's mind thus far has been, "Why did she do it?"

I'm not a psychologist, nor am I an Irish MP. However, as someone who has sex for a living -- often with married women -- I think I can provide insight as to why some women seek to have affairs. For starters, (and I realize this might sound overly simplistic), it's obvious that Iris was lacking something in her own romantic life. Women (and men) have affairs for a reason.

Was it purely sexual? I doubt it. It's likely to be a combination of things -- namely the stress of having a household with two political careers. Clearly, Iris wanted something more than what Peter was giving her. Attention, perhaps, as well as sex. It appears Kirk McCambley was able to provide both, at least for a period of time.

As for the age difference, I suspect that it gave Iris what she valued most: power and influence. It's not as if Kirk was wearing the pants in the relationship. Iris had more sexual experience, financial means, as well as opportunity. For awhile, the affair seemed to be going well. Kirk started his restaurant, and Iris got what she needed, sexually and otherwise.

Now that the affair's been exposed, I suspect Iris is going to be the one to pay for it in the court of public opinion. Sure, Kirk was in the wrong for sleeping with a married woman, and the public has certainly been sympathetic to Peter. But Iris... well, there's nothing that people hate more than a hypocrite.

She's fully entitled to her opinion that gays are immortal -- that gay sex is disgusting and that they all need church counsel for their "sins". But is she also entitled to cheat on her husband and maintain the air of a social and religious conservative at the same time?

Hell no.

The fact that she attempted suicide also goes to show that she isn't as religious as she might like people to think she is. I'm no theologian, but suicide is a bit of a no-no in the Catholic faith, is it not? Again, politicians must adhere to the often rigid standards they have when it comes to social values. Iris Robinson, like so many of her peers, has failed to do so.

So, is there a moral to this story? Well, as I've said before, affairs are often a dangerous thing to have. Escorts provide sex and companionship discreetly -- and if the client desires, on a regular basis. For the money she got Kirk McCambley to start his restaurant, she could have afforded DOZENS of two-hour bookings.

Oh, and don't be a hypocritical, homophobic, bible-thumping bitch.

Check out a three-part BBC News story on the affair:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

PS -- Mr. Robinson, if you're reading this blog post, FILE FOR DIVORCE. Take it from someone with some background in Public Affairs: Your ex-wife is nothing but a liability.

Massage Therapy

With temperatures here in Miami still far below normal, it's not surprising I gave a massage last night at work.

The idea of a sex worker providing a massage for a client usually conjures up images of trafficked women in seedy massage parlors. The client is male and almost always fat, and either lies on the table motionless or barks demands. At the end of the massage, the poor woman inevitably has to give him a hand job -- also known as a "happy ending."

My massages are just that -- massages. I have no formal training, just experience with past girlfriends. That's not to say the experience is totally chaste, either. If possible, I like to turn up the heat in the apartment, and have the client take her clothes off before lying down. These requests are almost always obliged.

From there, I'll pour massage oil onto her nude body, work it into the skin, and ask her if there's any areas she needs me to focus on. The neck and shoulders are popular -- not that my hands stay there. While I don't provide the "happy ending" my female peers do (I suppose the female equivalent to a hand job would be fingering her, and most women aren't too keen on that), I do try to provide a sensual experience.

"Sensual" can mean a lot of things. For some, it means me letting my hands wander all over her body -- from her buttocks and thighs to her breasts and abdomen. Still, the massage itself is NEVER to turn into me groping her like some drunken idiot at a bar. I'm being paid, folks. That means she has to get pleasure from my services.

For others it just means talking to her, letting her tell me about her sexual fantasies and/or past experiences, all the while moving my hands over her body. Most of my clients have candles somewhere in their homes, and so I usually light those, too. Turn on a little music and dim the lights and we're really talking.

As for myself, I'm usually nude or in my boxer briefs. It all depends on what she wants, honestly. Boxer briefs seem to be the more popular choice, but sometimes my clients ask for me to get naked as well, if for no other reason that they feel strange being the only one exposed.

So after massaging a nude women while being nude or nearly nude myself, sex is a natural way to end things. Funny thing is, it never lasts that long. Perhaps both the client and myself get so worked up over the massage that we both climax rather quickly. All that sensory stimulation can really get the blood and endorphins flowing, you know?

While I've stated many times how much I enjoy my job, there's nothing better than giving a rubdown to a beautiful naked woman. True, it's more work for me, but I don't mind. Oddly enough, it gives me a real sense of accomplishment.

The Art of Cuddling

Most women like to cuddle.

It sounds trite, I know. Perhaps even stereotypical. However, if there's anything being a male escort has taught me, it's that simply holding a client after the fact is nearly as important as the act of sex itself.

Of course not all women are like this. Some are happy to have me fuck them, give them an orgasm and then vacate the premises. Still, others desires something more personal, more intimate. I don't particularly mind, as long as I'm able to leave when I'm supposed to.

Much as I love my clients, business is business. If she paid for an hour, she gets an hour. I break this rule on occasion, but have really tried to cut back -- and not just because my agent says that Miami already has plenty of men willing to give it away for free.

The whole "cuddling" thing has been exacerbated in recent weeks due to the cold weather. Miami has plenty of transplants from the Northeastern United States, especially from cities such as Philadelphia, Washington D.C. and New York City. They appeared to have weathered the chill better than native-born Floridians. I still laugh whenever I see someone in gloves and a scarf when the temperature dips to 60F.

Today also brought an email from the agent in Los Angeles -- the one I had lunch with in New York City over the Christmas holidays. She wished me a Happy New Year, and almost cryptically said she was "keeping me in her thoughts." Once again, it seems I've had better luck in the field of sex work than what I studied at university.

In general, 2009 was a decent year. It's what 2010 brings that really has me interested.

Simone

By now you're probably wondering what the status is with Simone.

When I first started writing this blog, two out of my three closest friends -- Adam and Rebecca -- were escorts. Now that Rebecca is gone, I'm left with Adam and Bailey, and dare I say Simone is beginning to take Rebecca's place.

When Simone and I first met, the only side of me she really saw was Julian. The real me, well, that was much more elusive. As open and honest as I am on this blog, I'm afraid I'm a bit more guarded in-person. Understand that some people would be horrified and/or insulted to learn of what I do for a living. I can't risk letting people get too close, because all it would take is one call to the police to land me in jail.

The fact that Simone is an escort herself makes things easier. I let my guard down little by little, until she really got to see who I really am outside work. She knows about my time at university, about Catherine and Rebecca, even about my writing. Oh, and I introduced her to the brilliance that is British television. She particularly enjoyed Coupling, Hotel Babylon, Footballers' Wives and Mistresses.

(And kudos to a blog reader from Massachusetts who suggested MI-5. Very compelling indeed.)

I too am intrigued by her. She's far more well-traveled than I am, having visited everywhere from London to Tokyo. She spoke fondly of Montreal, a city I'm still itching to visit. Like Rebecca, I can envision Simone and I catching a plane up north and wandering Montreal together. Perhaps this spring, we'll do just that.

But let's cut to the chase: Have she and I had sex? Surprisingly, that answer is no.

Not to say that there isn't any tension. We're both young, available, and reasonably attractive. Ordinarily this would be the perfect recipe for a 3 a.m. fuck after a night of boozing. Why that isn't the case I'm not quite sure -- but I do have an idea.

Both Simone and I know that our careers depend on our being able to have sex indiscriminately with complete strangers. Therefore, romantic relationships of any kind endanger our ability to earn money. We like spending time with each other, certainly, but there still exists a barrier between us. One that I believe we both put up in order to prevent things from progressing too quickly.

So for all of those who think that I'm just a sex-addicted heathen whose career requires no sacrifice, think again. Yes, I have sex several times a week with several different women. But a steady relationship with a partner I picked on my own? Not so much.

Not that I'm complaining, really. How many other twenty-somethings are in monogamous relationships? And unlike them, at least I get paid for my work -- and alway use protection.

Now, however, it's time for dinner. After that, I need to brush, floss, shower, shave and dress for work. My hair will be slightly gelled, my nails clipped, and just a bit of cologne and aftershave for that olfactory effect. You know the old saying, The Devil's in the Details?

It's absolutely true. And this Devil is looking to have fun and get paid.

Apology

It was 10:30 a.m. After being out late last night on a booking, I was still asleep -- until the phone began ringing.

It can't be my agent, I thought. She wouldn't call early the next day when she booked me for a two-hour booking the night before. Reaching over onto the nightstand beside my bed, I pick up my phone and don't even bother looking to see who it is.

"Hello?" I said, my voice still a bit groggy with sleep.

"Hello, _______? This is _______ from __________ Communications."

Okay, several things. First, this woman used my real name. Secondly, she's from the firm up north that passed me over for another candidate. Not exactly the person I want to hear from first thing in the morning.

For a brief second I wonder if their new hire is a complete psycho, photo-copied his/her ass on the copy machine, threw hot coffee on the Vice President, or simply failed to show up at all. Was the woman from HR calling me for another interview?

"Yes, hello." I sat up in bed, suddenly alert. "What can I do for you this morning?"

"Listen, I just wanted to apologize again for not being in contact about the position. About not letting you know we filled it."

"Hmm? Oh, right. It's fine, really. Thanks for letting me know in the end, though. Most other recruiters aren't as kind."

The woman laughed. "I know we have a bad rep. Still, I hope you'll continue to be interested in opportunities with the firm. Take care..."

I hung up with a "what-the-fuck" moment going through my mind. Did this woman feel guilty after the e-mail I sent her, basically asking her to just be honest with me about whether the firm was interested in hiring me? Was she genuine in saying I should continue to keep the firm in my professional sights?

Her kindness certainly throws a wrench in my plans to stop trying to get work in my field of university. Honestly, going through the job application process was insulting and unrewarding. Why put myself through that when I'm already earning better money than almost everyone I went to university with?

Picking up my phone again, I see there was a text from the agent. I'm working tonight -- no surprise there -- but the text took me aback. Sometimes, it seems that Julian and the "real me" are being pulled in two different directions. God only knows who will end up winning in the end.

I suppose it'll be whoever wants me the most.

Back to Work

Well, the holidays have finally faded and it's back to work for everyone around the world -- including escorts like me.

It's been awhile since I've had sex with two different women in the same day. Of course my agent was wise enough to give me plenty of time between appointments, which is reserved for showering, changing and making sure my hair looks just right.

Don't laugh -- it's the little things that clients (especially women) really pay attention to. The last thing I want to do is show up to an appointment looking like I just fucked another woman, even if that's exactly what I did.

Before we continue, I've had some guys ask about cologne. Mainly, how much is too much or whether they should bother wearing any at all. My answer is this: A spritz or two is fine, but no more than that. Wonderful as Calvin Klein, Giorgio Armani and all other designers are, none of their fragrances will smell good if one were to bathe in them.

But onto the clients. The first was brunette, single and I believe a doctor. In a rare showing of complete stupidity, I mentioned that I was almost finished watching the first season of Grey's Anatomy on DVD. Stupid, stupid. Still, she laughed, and said that she thought it was one of the more charming medical dramas on television.

After we got to know each other better, it wasn't long before I was giving her a medical examination myself. More than anything, being an escort has taught me that men really need to learn how to perform oral sex properly -- because that's pretty much the first thing women ask/suggest I do.

After that, she returned the favor, and was so skilled at doing so I nearly suffered from premature ejaculation. Still, I managed to hold on, and when we finally had penetrative sex, the orgasm was worth the wait. I wouldn't have minded staying a bit longer had her pager not gone off.

Folks, the TV dramas are true. Soon as she was needed at the hospital, she all but kicked me out of her apartment and followed me out the door. As she sped away in her car, I imagined her scrubbing in for some life-saving surgery. The more books I read about popular medicine, the more I'm fascinated by the field itself.

Moving on. The second client was an English professor. She specialized in British Literature, pre-1900s. I haven't read much of the stuff since my time at university, but after we had sex, the conversation was definitely stimulating.

According to her, England has always been a country full of immigrants. I swear I'm not making this up, but when she began telling me about life back then, for some reason she'd put on her glasses. So there I was, listening to her talk about her field while she lay naked in bed, blonde hair draped over her breasts as her blue eyes smiled behind wire-rimmed glasses.

As soon as I got back to my apartment, I called my agent to tell her that these two clients were some of the best I've had in months, and to try and turn them into regulars if at all possible.

So, that's my report. Oh, and whatever is causing this freakishly cold weather in Miami, I wish it would stop. January is supposed to be in the lower- to mid-seventies. Though I must say, there is something magical about wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, sipping a Peppermint Hot Chocolate, walking beneath tall palms as the sun sets over the Biscayne Bay.

As always, stay tuned for more...

Gaydar

So, about my gay cousin...

After a bit of cajoling from Adam, I finally let him see a picture of my cousin from Faebook. Adam, in all his infinite wisdom regarding all things gay, claims he can tell a person's sexuality based on a mere photograph.

Of course this wasn't a proper experiment, seeing how I'd already told him about my cousin coming out to me. But as soon as I pulled up my cousin's Facebook page, Adam nodded in agreement and told me I should have been able to tell straightaway.

"And how's that?" I asked. "Are there such things as gay eyes?"

"No," Adam continued, "but there is such a thing as gay-face."

I rolled my eyes. Gay-face, as far as I know, is a term that gay men often use to describe common facial features they share. A tightness around the eyes and mouth is one, as are "sparkly" eyes and a too-wide smile.

Mainly, gross stereotypes that any heterosexual such as myself would be shunned for saying. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Adam can be the most homophobic person on the planet. The fact that he sucks cock himself seems largely inconsequential.

"Well, thank you anyway for all your help," I said. "PFLAG especially -- they had a lot of good information for family members."

For some odd reason, Adam began to chuckle. That "chuckle" soon grew into full-fledged laughter that sounded like a hyena in heat. I'm not saying my laugh is any better -- Rebecca used to describe it as explosive -- but he was really losing it. Confused, I waited until he regained his composure to ask him what was so damn funny.

"Come on, you're telling me you don't remember?"

"Oh Christ," I said. "Adam, that was over a year go."

"Still, you banged a lesbian during your first month at work!"

"I didn't 'bang' her, dumb-ass. She told me to go, remember?"

All right, here's how it went down: I'd been working for only about a month and was still getting used to the whole having-sex-for-money thing. My agent was patient, understanding, and gradually increasing the amount of clients I would see -- and she always did a good job in terms of screening.

However, her screening process didn't seem to account for women questioning their sexual orientation.

The women I met with was what many would call a "lipstick lesbian". I apologize for the crass stereotype, but she was very, very feminine. So feminine that I would have never guessed that she was questioning her sexuality, or that she'd hired me to help her with it.

We never made it that far. After I stripped nude, I crawled into bed with her and began kissing her on the mouth, neck, breasts, etc. But when I made the move to slip on a condom, she pushed her hands against my chest and told me no.

"No?" I repeated. "Is something wrong?"

"God, I'm so sorry. It's just -- I can't go through with this."

"Um, all right then. We can wait a bit, then maybe you'll feel better--"

"No, it's not that. I... I like women."

After we were both dressed, we discussed everything. She'd broken up with her fiance after having an affair with a woman at her workplace. After that'd ended, she tried telling herself the affair was just a fling. My God, she wasn't a lesbian. No way. Just a fluke.

I suppose bedding a handsome man (her words, not mine) would give her a final solution to the manner. I can't say I was really hurt, seeing how she liked women. And she even insisted I keep the money. Not too bad at all.

I know I must sound like a broken record at this point, but escorting is not just about sex. If it were, all my clients would just rent porn and masturbate at home. No -- escorting involves something more, a kind of one-on-one interaction that might end with sex but can include a whole lot more.

And just a general announcement, my blog isn't going anywhere. Rest assured, the adventures of this Man About Town will continue!