A call boy's experinece, up to a point.


Moving Day

This blog, and all of it's further content, will be found in slightly fancier digs.

But only slightly, mind.



Technical Glitches


Something seems to have gone horribly awry with my blog layout, if this computer is any judge. For the interim, I've reverted to a standard template while I figure out what's gone wrong.

It's distressing, but I think I'm going to move this operation over to TypePad anyway, and maybe get someone to design me an original, now that I'm a professional again.


A Confederacy of Whores

My bread and butter in the sex industry have always been regulars. I have a knack for being defying expectations, and I must have that certain je ne sai quois, because they do keep coming back: oh, the Johns; bless them.

This also defies the norm, according to my associates.

That's right, associates.

I now belong to a loose confederacy of boy prostitutes, and this, besides changing my perspective on sex work considerably, is not something I ever considered, up until the point that I am now faced with it: a group of professional peers, with whom I can talk shop and get down to the somewhat bizarre and disturbing business of normalizing the trade, which (as I see it) is both a good and bad thing, all at once.

The boys are fairly diverse, the attitudes towards the work variable to the extreme; and the personalities are decidedly gay. Gay, gay, gay. Which is stupendously amusing. My experience has got me a little used to the straight boys who take it for money; these ones are lighting their cigarettes off of one another.

"You're the new girl on the block honey. Everyone's gonna want to try you once."

They do. The ones that go for the younger looking fellas, the slim ones. I've got that market cornered; but some of the bitchier lads were also adamant:

"They get over you quick though."

Maybe, but early signs show my old pattern asserting itself clearly. After a fairly modest opening week, my second has closed decidedly more flush than the first. A full third of my busniess this week were repeats, and yesterday one gentleman booked me early in the day, then called in the evening, to have me again.

I'm curious to see what happens when they start to clue in, those sharp, critical ones. Getting into this arrangement, I am also now prone to something else I hadn't expected, that sickly green hue of professional jealousy.

"What did we do that was so special?"

Nothing special really, but, as I've said before, I like to be good at what I do; and I have a great bag of tricks.


Other Mundanities And Concerns

Shelter, and a working concept of the geography of my new home.

I have managed to secure residency at a bare-bones facility that should give me enough elbow-room to turn around (barely) and properly work through the classifieds to find myself a decent place. It's dawned on me that if I wish to live in comfort, like a functional middle class westerner, I'm going to have to get a room in a shared flat; preferably a house with a garden and climate control. As much as I adore living alone, and as much as I think it would afford me fewer complications if I didn't have to lie to the people I share with about my lifestyle and profession, I don't want to have to buy cookware, and the cost of a decent furnished apartment is a little beyond my ken. There are other things I'd like to be spending the money on: bring on the six hundred thread count sheets.

The advantage of being on an opposite schedule from the professional set is that I won't have to see the flatmates too much if I can suss out a living arrangement with say, a bunch of bankers, or quorum of accountants. Additionally, if I can find people unimaginative enough, it won't ever occur to them that they're living with a genuine whore.

As for discerning which way is north, the character of the distinct neighborhoods, and where I'm going to buy wine and unpasturized cheese, the only real solution is to walk around and drink enormous bowls of coffee to stimulate the discovery process.

I'd better get going.



It should also be noted that Mr. Difficult yesterday didn't want me to suck him off. At all.

You just try and have sex with a man for an hour, when you don't have a boner and he won't let you perform fellatio. Just try.

Raise The Bar

Only two clients in, back to business; the second, he could have been a deal breaker. He perhaps would have been if I hadn't had any previous experience. Let me be clear: there was nothing overtly repulsive about the man, but there was also nothing erotic. I've said it before: I get off on desire, and the atmosphere of Eros. This guy... I didn't have an inkling about where his head was, what he was thinking, and he was pretty tight lipped about what he wanted.

And, to be honest, I'm a little rusty. My bedroom ambassador skill-set needs a little brushing up -- I'm also a little nervous and shy after coming back from hiatus. I need to find my, um, rhythm again.

His touch was erratic. He kept moving my hands to different zones of his body with no warning, and without indication of approval or discomfort. He didn't kiss for any longer than a brief second, and when he did, it was tight lipped: a closed embouchure that tasted faintly of scotch. I usually like scotch. It felt like he was somehow resistant to me, but when I think about it now, it's more likely that I was just a prop for him; whatever was going on in his head only required me to be there visually. He had a good relationship with the mirror, the me in the mirror, just not with the me in the room.*

"What do you like?"

I told him twice, because he asked twice, but I don't think he was listening, because not much changed. I started to worry about how this was going. God, a bad review on my second day.... It's not like I wasn't trying. I looked helplessly at my semi-erect state. That, in itself, was a feat.

And then, he wanted me to fuck him. Grand. Simply grand.

That didn't go well. Although we tried. This... and that, but we definitely weren't meshing.

Alright, it's time to change tactics. "I want to see you hard," he kept murmuring. Fine. I started to ignore him, and keep his sporadic touch from interfering. I pushed him back on the bed with one hand, closed my eyes, and worked on it.

Worked on it, and made sure he didn't get in my way.

This, apparently, was the right thing. What he wanted was a bit of an asshole. Oh, right...

So, in the end, it came out fine. All over him in fact.

And I felt rather pleased with myself.

~ ~ ~

* He did, however, have that uncommon ability to cum without direct stimulation. No part of me was anywhere near his cock when he got-off. Twice.

Neat trick.



Not so good at waiting, and even less at being poor, October looked an awfully long way off.

So at the airport last weekend, disembarking, I looked around, took a deep breath, and felt relieved. Back to basics. Back to work kids. I'm on a roll, off one bed and onto another. After all, you can't have a blog about prostitution without prostituting; and sometimes the solutions to your problems can be solved by running away. Flying away. Taking flight.

I woke up one morning. Made coffee. Looked out the window over the view, and thought:

I think I'm over it.

So I've up and left. The normal job's history. I've also threw out most of my wardrobe in a fit of pique (I was feeling an aesthetic impasse every time I went to put something on), so considerably lighter and more mobile, here I am, signed up, randy and waiting to work tomorrow.

You've got to admit, I can move quickly when I have to.

God I love travel. And sex. And dirty old men with money.


"World Peace"

Whatever. I think I'd rather eat tacks.


I'm Not Plotting Anything, I Swear

Aside from the fact that I’ve had to deal with the fallout from hookus-interruptus, my huffed issue with the pedantic, toddling maneuvers of my current lifestyle is the fact that I don’t have the time or energy left to read anything engrossing: after work and the gym (the gym, the gym, the gym: at this point, I look at it like money in the bank) I’m spent, and vocabulary-less. Text just swims like ancient hieroglyphs -- I can’t dredge up the effort to translate it; and this, I’m beginning to realize, is tantamount to a cardinal sin, because I feel guilty all the time.

When I was speaking with my mother the other day, and the conversation turned to how I felt about my life presently, what came out of my mouth was “I don’t have enough time for books”, in a kind of sad, depressive capitulation.

She looked at me with concern. “You’re really not one to get energy just from doing something for the sake of doing it, are you?”

I’m unsure of how to take that; or what it means about how she sees my character. Whatever she suspects about how I’ve made money to live in the past (I get the impression that she thinks I was a drug dealer for a time) she does like the idea of me aspiring to something in the field I work at now, and that I would be quite good at it. (I have no doubt I would be good at it, but fear that I may have to seek serious psychoactive medication to keep it up for the length of a career.) Mind you, she also doesn’t want me to peruse it here: she’d much rather I was doing it back home, even though she’s polite enough not to say. She at once was pleased and concerned to hear my dissatisfaction, and I was acutely aware through the affection of our visit that she worries. “Paychecks are nice,” she reminded me, at one point. I know that she can sense when I’m turning over an idea that I’m not prepared to share with her.

What she doesn’t know is that I keep staring at that XXX on the calendar, or what exactly I can exchange for reading time.


Fruit. Juicy Fruit.

Some things just make me happy. Like artistic demonstrations that sum up every dirty-creative impulse in my brain. Like this.