Stranger than Fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final Goodbyes

Well, Rebecca is finally gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, will you?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll report back soon...

Drunken Dinners

Honestly, my friends are still alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why's that?" Adam asked.

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

Value Voters Summit (Carrie Prejan is an idiot)

I knew this was coming sooner or later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So all conservatives are racist?"

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

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

Does that qualify as schizophrenia?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fatherhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close Encounters of the Child Kind

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

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

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

"Who are you?" she asked.

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

"Best Buy?"

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

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

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

"Is her computer all right?"

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

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

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

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

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

Aim to Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"Yes -- just do it."

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

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

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

And then, she came.

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

For once, it was nice to be in charge.