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


Less Resistance

The cleverest function of my gym, the fact that it's so shiny. State of the art. Everything's well oiled and serviced, leveled and sub-leveled into designations of form and fucntion. It grants, by mere association, the anticipation of bringing your body in line with the aesthetics of the surroundings: here such things are possible, it says. Poor body, so maligned by pastry shops and street vendors; here you might get your due. It doesn't look hard, stained and frayed; it's inspiration not intimidation.

The genius to this is that the impression lasts long enough to get everyone to join, pay their membership fees, sign some mephistophelian contract, and return home with the best of intentions; before the weight of the weights actually has a chance to tear their protean strands apart. Once that reality stiffens the joints, grinds down the initiative, the money keeps siphoning into the complex without the vexing members themselves.

I'm not exactly a gym rat, but I go through my periods of faithful and productive attendance. What I don't like is people getting in my way.

Now well beyond the New Year, during the day I can practically bounce through the vacant space between stations. Why did I ever go to the Y? No one dreams there. It's the realm of the destitute, they're just getting by: day by day; and they do, in that dingy, manky, carpeted basement of a workout room. You need something upscale, attended by people who are used to getting what they want, who then abandon their ambitions when they become inconvenient.

All you really need to get what you want is patience; and something to read while you're waiting.



I haven't called my contact at the Agency yet, as prior commitments (re: current dependency) to the Stupid Job have precluded me from doing so.

I should mention that the Stupid Job has not forced me to my present course of action. It was already in the possible column of my agenda before I took in my resume. In fact, said Stupid Job has probably granted me the necessary lenience with which to weigh the real endeavor in my mind -- it's not very demanding, my means to a (paltry) paycheck right now. I have a burden of time to think. I have been heaving through it considering what I have to gain, what I have to lose, what it will cost; and trying to distinguish if I can actually see myself as the thing: a male escort.

In order, I have come to these conclusions (and they’re all quite simple): money (duh); the respect of those who know about it (I have no illusions -- outside of the industry, there is a decidedly negative cultural onus attached to getting paid for sex, no matter how liberal the judge might be); completely unknown (and truth be told, I may never); and I can.

The first time I charged anyone for a sexual act it was unexpected; at least on my end. It started with someone I was completely unattracted to. I had been happily charming him to pass the time, but as I turned away to say hello to someone else, he inappropriately took hold of my arms, brought me back, and kissed the nape of my neck. Which I liked; but not enough to find him attractive. “What are you doing later?” he asked me.

“Going home,” I replied.

“Would you come home with me?” He asked.

“Well, now,” I laughed. “That’s an expensive proposition.” I still don’t know why it came out of my mouth. I think I was joking… half joking? Perhaps more I was putting out a dare, for him and for me.

“I don’t pay for it,” he replied.

I shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and walked away.

When I passed him a few minutes later, he stopped me. “How much?”

I told him.

He laughed, but I didn’t negotiate. The price was fixed. He caved. I took my own dare, and it wasn’t as hard as I had somehow imagined it would be; and not so different than a friendly fuck between strangers, eager to wrest into each other for release. He had enough lust for both of us; and when it comes down to it, I like sex. A lot.

Plus, I’m good at it, and he wasn’t very hard to please. I didn’t even have to dip into my bag of tricks.

His only complaint was that he kept noticing my eyes, drifting towards the clock beside the bed in the hotel room.

“I’m sorry, but there’s only so much of this illusion I can give you. I really do have to be out of here by three.”

I should probably work on filtering lines like that out of my pillow-talk, if I’m going whole-hog into business.

I left the hotel, showered, amused, and decidedly more solvent than I had been before I left my home that evening. I thought, well, if ever there has been a case of negative reinforcement… and there was a stack of bills in my pocket.

I left the Stupid Job this evening with a list in my pocket. Untitled, as I had a mild paranioa that co-workers might spy it and somehow discern its purpose:


Five things to all systems go.


Never Fear

It's a good mantra, as far as mantras go, but it's fatally flawed, as most wishful reductions of the human condition are: fear keeps us safe. Or, at the very least, it keeps us aware of the reduction of safety: it lets us know when safety is getting ready to take a hike. Prostitution has never been considered a secure occupation, and existing outside of certain parameters (such as organization and legal recourse), it can be downright dangerous. First off, I'm not stupid. I intend to minimize the risk.

I had said that I was going to leave the sex-industry, when I left my last location; but in all honesty, I knew I wasn't done. Not yet. Even when the plane was closing in its wheels, there was that little black box in the back of my mind, the answer inside the question: is that really it?

I haven't made the call yet, but my mind's made up. I'm going to give it a whirl. A serious one this time.

I'm not sure if I'm afraid; but I am nervous... even though I've been down this road before. Briefly, and not entirely unpleasantly, though it was a different sort of forum. Who was it that said confidence is like the tides? I'm jittery in the way you are before calling a romantic interest for the first time; I'm uncertain of the first step. It's a preamble in both situations, setting yourself up to be judged; and, let's be honest, I am the only commodity to be sold in this circumstance.

I don't do porn. My picture won't be appearing anywhere public anytime soon. The modeling I've done has been private.

But I will be sharing how this thing goes. Keep reading.