The Ride of My Life

This past weekend, I was taken for a ride.

"I'm in the mood for a drive," the client said. "How about you?"

I couldn't help but notice the beautiful Mercedes in the driveway. The thought of speeding along I-95 in such a handsome piece of machinery was definitely pleasing. By the time the client and I were tearing across the Causeway, music blaring, I felt like I was eighteen again.

"Rides like a dream, doesn't it?" the client said. "I bought it last year..."

She went on to list a slew of automotive details that didn't mean much to me. Apparently, the client is something of an auto enthusiast -- definitely a change of pace from what I'm usually used to. There's something infinitely sexy about a woman who likes cars. I don't know why -- there just is.

Unfortunately, my hormones must have gotten the better of me. While we were stopped at a red light, I leaned in and kissed her, without any provocation. True, hiring a escort is probably provocation enough, but there are still some women who think that kissing on the mouth is something that escorts don't do. While that's true to a certain extent, I'm not one of those escorts.

(On another note, I've been thinking about giving my services a catchy name. Female escorts have the Girlfriend Experience (GFE). I'm thinking of the Gentleman Experience. A little derivative, but the Boyfriend Experience just sounds cheesy. And it's not like any of these women want another husband.)

On another whimsical yet practical decision, the client checked into a hotel at the beach and led me by the hand to the room. Falling into bed, we had sex with the balcony door open to the waves crashing on the shore. Like something out of a good movie, it was one of the best nights I had at work in a long time.

"Are you OK?" the client asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you. It's just -- well, this is one of the best nights I've had at work."

"I'm sure you say that to all the ladies."

"No, really, I had a great time. You're not like the other 'ladies', either. You're so confident and head-strong. Not to mention, I always found aggressive female drivers sexy."

The client laughed. She talked of growing up in Texas, where speed limits are really only a "suggestion" and anyone dumb enough to go under eighty-miles-per-hour on the highway might find themselves in the ER. She liked to visit home each Christmas, where the temperatures are cooler but still hospitable.

I've never been to Texas, but have heard wonderful things about Austin in recent years. The client confirmed most everything I said, while adding that summer in Texas is much more bearable due to the lower humidity.

"I'll have to give it a try, then," I said.

As the booking came to a close, I showered, dressed, and kissed her goodbye. Call me again, I said, and truly meant it. This is a woman I would gladly spend time with for free.

From Mother to Daughter

Had a rather interesting night at work...

I arrive at the client's home to see that it's not the client I'm meeting with, but rather her daughter. At first, I'm stunned. Why? I'm not sure -- plenty of fathers have bought their sons prostitutes, so why not the same with mothers and daughters?

Perhaps I hold women to a "higher standard", or expect them not to engage in such blatant acts of sexual consumerism. However, I'm never one to turn down a booking, especially when the girl was only a year or two younger than I am.

It seems she'd just broken up with her boyfriend and wasn't in the mood to try and find someone new. Like many young people, she just preferred sex for the time being. And have sex we did -- in her childhood bedroom, which still had a few relics of her past.

"What is it?" she said, as I lay on my back and looked around the room.

"Nothing -- it's just feels like a teenage girl's room, that's all. Not something I see very often during work."

"I'm surprised they kept it like this. I figured once I moved out they would have turned my room into an office or a home theater or something."

"Home Office," I said. "That's what my best friend's parents did. Whenever he goes back home he stays in the guest room. Better than sleeping right next to a fax machine that has a mind of its own."

After glancing at the bedside clock, I told the daughter I needed to get going. She paid for an hour, and that's what she got. I thought about asking how she went about asking her mother about my services, but decided against it. The last thing she (the daughter) wants to be reminded of is that she just paid for a whore -- and had her mother's help in finding one.

"Goodnight," she said. "Thanks."

"No problem. Tell your mother I say hello."

Status Check

Had lunch with the agent this afternoon. She called late last night and sounded concerned for me. When I asked why, she hesitated, then said she knew how much Rebecca's departure had to affect me. I agreed, but insisted I was still fit for work.

"Oh, it's not that," the agent said. "Still, I'd like for us to talk. Are you available for lunch tomorrow?"

We met in Coconut Grove. I ordered healthy -- chicken wrap and an iced tea, along with a side salad. It must have looked appealing, because the agent ordered the same thing. As the restaurant was rather empty, we started talking shop quickly.

"Your clients are still giving excellent feedback," she said. "I'm glad. I'll admit, I was worried about you when Rebecca left. The two of you were always... close."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, we were. Still, no use crying over those who've already left?"

"Very true. And while I'm happy for her, it leaves me one less girl. One that happened to be a top earner -- but I'm not that worried. Never had a problem finding girls before."

Once the agent verified that I was still in good spirits, the conversation turned personal. We discussed our friends, families, the kinds of things that normally an escort and an agent never discuss. I don't know why she and I developed such a close camaraderie. It's not like we see each other that often. Perhaps we just feel comfortable around one another?

(For the record, we've never slept together. A reader recently asked me that via e-mail).

After the check was paid and we prepared to go our separate ways, a stray comment from my behalf caught her interest. When I (somewhat) lamented my lack of a significant other -- hell, even a casual girlfriend -- the agent's eyebrows arched in surprise.

"You're meaning to tell me you can't get a date?" she said.

"Not that I can't get one," I said. "I guess I'm just not aggressive enough."

"Well then step it up! If you can work for me, you can get a date."

And right she was. Still, on the drive home, her statement echoed through my mind. Why is it that I'm so much more timid when Julian is turned off and I revert to the real me? Going through life in full-on escort mode isn't the answer, but neither is being a wallflower.

Of course, my deepest fear is that I'll realize that as long as I'm an escort, I'll never be able to have a real relationship -- that love will only come when I leave prostitution behind. With nothing on the nine-to-five job front lately, that isn't going to happen anytime soon.

Homesickness

It seems a client of mine is desperate to return to California.

This client, she's become something of a regular the past two months. She and her workaholic husband moved to Miami as part of his job, and thankfully he avoided being laid off in the wake of the Economic Crisis.

San Francisco -- her hometown -- is one that really tends to grow on people. Even more so for actual natives, who've been there to witness the city's transformation from hippie haven to the closest thing California has to Manhattan. After having sex, she began to reminisce about the City by the Bay, and how much she wanted to go back.

"This humidity is ridiculous," she said. "Let alone the traffic. And if you don't live in Coconut Grove, Brickell or the Beach, you can't walk anywhere."

"I know," I replied. "I grew up in _______ and still miss it during this time of year. Hopefully I'll manage to sneak in a quick trip to see what autumn is really supposed to be like."

Apparently, autumn is actually quite sunny and warm in Northern California, due to what's known as an Indian Summer. Weekends are meant to be spent outdoors, whether it's shopping in Nob Hill, driving across the bridge into Marin County, or taking a trip to Napa Valley.

"I've always wanted to see the vineyards," I said, and truly meant it. "I'm not much of a drinker -- a glass or two is usually my limit -- but the area looks stunning from all the photos I've seen."

"Oh, it is. You should definitely go. There are plenty of good deals in the winter, as long as you don't mind a little rain."

I laughed. "We've been having a 'little rain' here in Miami since May."

"Yeah," the client said. "And it'll be another month before the weather is bearable again."

Arts

It's been far too long since I picked up a paintbrush.

My materials came today in the mail -- acrylics, a few brushes, as well as plenty of canvas. I'm focusing on abstract art and still life for the moment, but I hope to move on to landscapes and portraits, too.

I've always loved the atmosphere one can find at a paint studio. From funky art students and equally colorful instructors, to the smell of the materials and just the relaxed vibe, it's one of my favorite past times. I've made a point of rediscovering it again.

I found the art world my accident, by posing nude for a few art classes. Despite my harping on about anonymity, these nude sessions were before I started my career in escorting. I was hesitant at first, but soon found myself quite comfortable being naked in a room full of strangers. A precursor to my current occupation, perhaps?

The idea for this entry came this past weekend, I was watching Titanic with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet. The famous scene in which DiCaprio's character sketches a topless Kate Winslet is classic -- and highly erotic, at least in my opinion.

I've photographed a client before, but never sketched one. I'm a decent drawer, but nothing exceptional. Not sure how my agent would react to me sketching a client, seeing how it would likely take another hour, one that the client probably wouldn't want to pay for.

Oh, and just for those who are curious, nothing on the nine-to-five job front. Looks like I'm in escorting until I come across something worth my time.

Armchair Psychologists

Nothing gets people going like an escort telling their life story.

Once a week, I go through the Hushmail address I set up for the purpose of this blog. People write in, some asking me questions while others just compliment the blog and my writing. I don't mind either -- in fact, I thrive on the feedback, and it's great to see people appreciating this blogging venture of mine.

However, there are some downsides, too. Mainly, armchair psychologists who think they can diagnose me with some sort of mental ailment and/or determine why I'm really working as an escort.

As I opened the e-mail and scanned its contents, I was tempted to delete it. Immediately, the writer began recalling the old stereotypes about escorts -- that we're all addicted to drugs, suffering post-traumatic stress from childhood sexual abuse, or trying to support the children we had out of wedlock.

False, false, false -- at least when it comes to me. Actually, scratch that -- neither Rebecca, Adam or myself meet that description.

People, if you want to see a crack whore, take a drive down Biscayne Boulevard in Downtown Miami at night. You'll also find plenty of homeless people in Miami Beach and even Coconut Grove (there's one guy who hangs out near the post office, harassing people for change). I don't advise going into Little Haiti or the Design District, though. While one can find plenty of interesting characters, those neighborhoods aren't the safest.

For the last time, I'm in escorting because I couldn't find a job in my field, and didn't want to move back into my parents' house. I get paid well, have no sexually transmitted diseases and am tested regularly. I wasn't physically/sexually/psychologically abused as a child, and the only drug I take is alcohol -- and only occasionally. One can find worse drunks at a frat party at the University of Miami.

Should I ever feel depressed, I'll seek out help. With a good-paying job and no dependents, I can afford to see a real psychologist, thank you very much. Lastly, I'd like to propose a question for those who are still -- against all evidence -- convinced I was somehow mistreated as a child.

While I hate to say it, men are far more likely to sexually abuse children than women. So, if I were abused as a child, it would most likely have been by a man -- follow my drift?

So pray tell: If I were abused by a man, why would that lead to me having sex for a living... with WOMEN? Shouldn't I have ended up in gay porn? Stalking street corners with the rest of the twinks and rent boys supporting their crystal meth addictions?

It's not that I don't appreciate the concern -- I do. But there are other people who need it far more than I do. Focus the soul-saving crusades for those who are truly in need.

A Novel Idea

Lately, I've been toying with the idea of turning my life as a post-grad gigolo into either a novel or a screenplay. Well, allow me to rephrase that -- I would be fictionalizing my experiences, hopefully making them even more entertaining.

While I'm adamant that not everyone involved in prostitution is either destitute, drug-addicted or a victim of sexual abuse, I realize that the industry itself could in fact make one's life rather... complicated.

I wrote a few script pages last night, centered on a young man named Gabriel who, like me, found himself having sex for a living after failing to get a proper job after graduating from college. Unlike me, Gabriel is based in New York City, a graduate of New York University, and even more successful than I am.

However, Gabriel's life isn't perfect. Taking a page out of Adam's book, Gabriel himself is gay, but finds himself sleeping with women to pay the rent. The real love of his life is a man who is unfortunately married. Trapped in the closet of his Wall Street firm, the prospect of coming out and divorcing his wife is impossible. After witnessing several of his friends get the axe when the Great Recession began, he'll keep up the his heterosexual facade for as long as necessary.

One night, Gabriel's lover is found dead, and the last number dialed wasn't his wife's.

So, there it is. I'll keep plugging away each night, hoping to turn it into something worthwhile. Oh, and to the one person who insists on e-mailing me, insisting my blog is a "fake" yet continuing to read it each week, I have only one question for you:

"Why do you keep reading it?"