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


Seeking the Green Fairy

Well, kids, I've got the night off: no business, no appointments; nothing pending, nothing earned.

I also have a bottle and a party to go to.

Is this a recipe for disaster?

I don't rightly know, but on the back of the bottle it says Artemisia absinthium, and it's 72.5% alcohol.

That's right: me and the poets, old school.


"I'll Be Joining That Guy"

For me, the assertion: "I want to take you to dinner," is usually delivered in a breathless, and sometimes sweaty, moment. My response is always a smile.

I do love a good gastronomist; apatites being better indulged then fended off.

And I happen to be good dinner date. Professionally, I mean (casually too, I suppose; but dining-for-pay is so much more fun); though I’d rather go to McDonalds by myself than be forced to sit through a tasting menu at Truffles with some boorish, new-money twat, so, if it's up to me, I only accept if I know there’ll be a measure of good conversation.

I also enjoy being the surprise. A lot of men automatically assume: a) that I'm stupid; and b) that I somehow fell into sex work because I have no other knowledge or skill. Getting "invited" to dinner lets me cannonball both of these preconceptions out of the water, in an entertaining and endearing sort of way, rather than a challenging one. I generally choose the restaurant, as well as the wine -- no one’s going to be having me drink a Pinot with my steak, thank you.

Plus, my skills at drawing people out have been improving. My dinner flirting is (I hope) desirable and engaging, and as I’m genuinely interested in other people, getting him to talk about himself is not necessarily a torturous experience; although, monologues have gone awry and seriously tried my goodwill.

When I was a young, nubile buss-boy at a fairly upscale metropolitan restaurant, there was a tall, gorgeously muscled red-head, who dined frequently with companions. His multiplicity of older urbane gentlemen were always quite polished, and he himself was probably one of everyone's favourite regulars: he was affable, and charming, and lovely. He was also the subject of a great deal of gossip. Which is something of an honour, when you consider that restaurant service staff are really more interested in gossiping about themselves than any two-dimensional patron. (The dirt really is all in the kitchen, let me assure you.) I watched him during lunch one day, and it recently occurred to me, that it was a moment delineated and filed for later reference. There was an attraction for me there: I wanted something of it. It wasn’t the redhead, and it wasn’t the older man; it was situational. It was the dynamic.

Curiosity and wonder; they’re a potent mix. Evidently, in me it can take a while for the combination to bring up much of a driving force, but when it happens watch me go.

Ah, subconscious goals and their fruits.


Needs Working Out

Hey, look!

A "respectable" paycheck, with tax taken off and everything....

Fuck me.

Why do I feel so cheap?


Oh, Pheromones; What Mischef You Sow

Boys smell good, don’t they? Especially when they’re hot and bothered; especially when they’ve been running around in the sun.

A cute courier boy (CCB, if you will) came into my place of employ at the Interim Position: tall, unkempt and a little rank. He reached across me to grab the parcel, and suddenly nothing fit anymore: my skin tightened. Then he flashed me a smile, and jumped off, out the door.

I felt I should sit down and put a book in my lap.

For someone who thinks about sex an awful lot, I can get perplexingly broadsided by random desire. Maybe it has something to do with subject: my libido is oft ordained to be driven by situation, not individual; and to be honest, since entering into sex work, I’ve been become astonishingly picky about what I find attractive… well, at least in comparison to what I was before. I don’t expect to get breathless much anymore.

What a pleasant surprise when it happens.



I'm having problems with Codename B; issues which relate primarily to organization and communication. You'd think that I was dating him. Perhaps if I did, I would be having fewer troubles.

Strike that; I would have more.

Accordingly, I have been forced to find myself a more regular sort of job for the interim, which is to be distinguished from the Stupid Job, for that had been brought upon by more dire circumstances, related to the change of physical location. This new employment, though tedious, at least comes with a few perks.

Having to get up before 10am is not one of them.

There are a number of concerns that come up before renting yourself out for intimate services: most relate to safety, the others relate to your schedule and its management. The commitment required to manage all of them yourself a little more than I can garner at the moment: I have other projects that need my attention. One of the things escorting provides is free time, so long as you are still available to redistribute your focus on short notice. Fielding phonecalls and screening clients can eat of lot of that time up, most of it through waiting; I would rather be doing other things. There is also the need (which I consider non-negotiable -- much like the condom) for someone to know where I am at all times. As Flatmate is the only local person I know that is aware of my trade, this is impossible; Flatmate does have a life of Flatmate's own. I need someone to represent me.

I have always been of the philosophical school that would rather pay for convenience, so it's time for me to go shopping: Codename B has to be reassigned. That's the good thing about codenames, they can belong to a long line of esteemed successors, each (one hopes) more effective than the last. In the meantime, I can at least console myself that the Interim Position, as it will be henceforth named, is at least in my field.

But the pay is shit.


Never Trust A Mirror

Or a smiling crocodile, from what I've heard.

The Flatemate took contention with a something I said in an earlier post:

"I wouldn't say you're not drop dead beautiful at all."


I suppose a mild case of body dysmorphia has to account for something; and you get sorta inured to what you have to stare at every day.

Isn't it nice to have friends?


Slapped by the Happy Juice

Slightly off topic, but personally pertinent: how about books?

I mean, really: how about them? I've been reading a while now (a couple of years, on an off), and I have liked half of what I've read well enough; and wanted to toss the rest into the ocean soon after I've closed the cover; but what about that stuff that you read after the fact, that stuff that brings you to something previous?

(It's not mad, it's incisive. I mean, if you people didn't care, you wouldn't be busying yourself with a text-form stranded in the middle of a multi-media format, now would you?)

Having just read Nausea by Sartre for the first time, it shocked me to realize that I'd formerly read another novel, a much more recent invention, that had obviously been created in reference to the famous (and randy) existentialists work; one that I had completely dismissed. I didn't know it at the time, but as soon as I put the old philosopher's narrative down, then -- THEN -- I figured it out: that book I'd been ready to let the tide take out to sea wasn't bad at all. In fact, it was better educated than me.

Shit. I need to reconsider.

I'm only sharing because I've had too much wine in a sitting. Flatemate and I were watching DVDs. I promise that I'll get back to the basics of concupiscent wranglings over cash sometime soon; I just thought it might be worth while, the message in the medium:

Don't discount what you don't understand: context is everything.

PS. Except rape and murder.

PPS. Mind you, if you don't know how to place a period, I still don't want to talk to you.

PPSS. But if you ante up, I'll get you off.


Idle Nightwork

There are little asides that you make in darkened hotel rooms, waiting; when he has gone into the bathroom for a quick shower, and you're left with the bare bed; stark, empty furniture. I question why this happens. It's not as if you're not expected, or that he's not happy to see you. Is it the last minute sniff before he opens the door that gives him the impression that he should lather and rinse? Or perhaps it's the fear of missing the knock at the door as soon as you turn on the taps, or flush the toilet -- like what happens with room service.

Or maybe, it's a realignment of the power structure: now you wait.

I usually gravitate towards the window. I watch the lights in the buildings light up and shut down. I quietly address all the other people, up to something at 2:30 in the morning; the quiet confederacy. What are they up to exactly? What I'm up to seems a lot more titillating and daring when I'm thinking about it at home (I get an odd flight of butterflies everytime I take a strange elevator), but in the moment it can seem hopelessly mundane.

Waiting for a stranger to come out of the shower. It's not that I don't appreciate the effort. Clean is first-rate. Bang-on.

I've watched hundreds of lights turn off in the dark while I'm still awake, and my mind is still racing; still busy.



The Trade

There are any number of things which can distinguish someone from the crowd, but they can still be ranked by regularity. The most common is beauty. The second is raw charisma.

The most successful escorts, prostitutes, strippers and grifters all have the latter in common. The former, though not worthless, can often be immaterial. Some of the most attractive men I have ever known haven’t been sell themselves based on that fact alone, and we’re not just talking about sex.

I will not suggest that I haven’t been dealt a favorable hand. I have, but I’m not drop dead; I’m not stop in your tracks and look at that guy kind of attractive. I’m more second take kind of attractive.

“Who was that?”

Me. It was just me.

Just me gets harder and harder to define under a workable heading, and the "me" that’s for sale is a curiosity. How much of myself goes into that transaction? If I was just a prostitute, that would be one thing; or even if it were the first thing -- before I found that something else, before I managed to seek out some other defining factor -- but escort is such a small crest: the tip of an iceberg’s finger. The sex-trade does not define the best and brightest of its participants, by any means, on either side of the bed, even though cultural onus tries to do that for us. You sell sex for money. Or (not to leave strippers out), you sell the suggestion of sex for money.

Either way, Culture doesn’t know what it’s talking about.

Let’s be honest: people sell far worse things for money: arms, for one; debt, for another; and those individuals get off with a lot less disgust and moralizing thrown in their direction, and considerably less legal trouble.

What really sticks in peoples craw, what brings them to such retrogradation of their usual tempers and demeanors, is that some of us can put a dollar value on intimate activity.

Quelle horror!” They exclaim.

It is horrifying.

Not the act itself, but the fuss, this interminable palaver over sex and paying for it. Something we should all be asking is: why? World’s Oldest Profession, the title reads. Why is that? Why is it that every culture has a reference point for it, a strata of society, whether dirty, pitiful, regular or sublime?

Has human history been paying for beauty, or charisma?

And how can it be considered morally horrifying? After all the taboos, the false starts, the superstitious interpretations, it still remains: prostitution, an individual compensating another individual for their intimate attention.

But that may be it: outside of procreation, sexual expression remains a mystery, and completely unexplained. Commonly, it is something that occurs between individuals, in private; but it has no express purpose, and that (especially to Western minds) is where it all falls down. Collectively, collectiveness is something that we have required, as a species, to grant authenticity. Sexuality doesn’t have a cultural value, by itself. It needs a function. It needs to be interpreted, and defined, by communal effort. There is the fact that we need to make babies, and the reasoning that’s the whole purpose behind attraction and erotic play, but that doesn’t hold because all of the mammals on the planet busy themselves with sexual pleasure when they can find it, procreational or not. Climbing into bed with someone, uncovering another person’s modesty, has been confused by so much misinformation and mystification that it’s been locked down. Even in this day and age, no one really wants to talk about it.

Stigma is the only thing that has given sex the power of the dollar.

Which is why the prejudice against its trade is a farce. You can’t make something which is relatively innocuous, yet completely ubiquitous, hard to archive and not expect there to be demand for it. The sex trade is a service, nothing more. And it would be a safer one, if it weren’t for the fact that culture defines it as invalid.

So what am I vending, really? And am I diminishing my distinctions from the crowd by putting whatever they are, out there on the market? Am I better served as a person to save up my youth and my erections, and lend both on the value of merit, rather than cash? When a masseuse charges sixty dollars an hour, a pedicure costs twenty a pop, and a psychiatrist can take hundreds at a go?

Now, I know I haven’t had training per se, but I am good at what I do, and I have a certain amount of charisma, which I’m certain is what has gained me regulars, more than my physical appearance. Selling a version of an ideal is really what the sex trade is about: having immediate access the semblance of a fantasy; and when it all comes down to it, perhaps the opprobrium against the trade is initially produced out of fear: that the regular partners (the wives, the girlfriends and boyfriends) won’t be able to measure up, or compete with a buffed professional object of desire.

They needn’t worry. Paying for a fille or garcon de joie is simply a digression, it’s not the everyday. No illusion is proof of being dispelled, and no matter what glamour any of us put on, we still all wake up with sleep in our eyes, leave dirty dishes in the sink, and fail to pay enough attention to our loved ones. Our flaws still show through, if you spend enough time staring. God knows, we still have our bad days.

We’ve just decided to auction the better ones.


An Expiration Date

The vast majority of my clients have been older than me, which I suppose is no surprise, but most have been solidly middle-aged, not (using the term kindly) old.

I made arrangements to see a particular mature gentleman, independently. He booked me in advance, and seemed oddly nervous about it. This can’t be your first time, I thought suspiciously. I mean, come-on.

I arrived at the hotel a little early, wearing by best smile, but ready to go if anything appeared out of sorts. He was much more relaxed once I was in his room: turns out that when he comes to town, he has a boy that he usually rents for the occasion, and this time had decided to trade up, in may favour. Nothing the matter there, I assured him.

He agreed, but was a little paranoid that the other boy would find out.

“You’re worried about cheating on your hustler?” I asked.
“He’s on the streets. I almost always end up running into him when I come here,” he explained, “and I’m on a budget this trip. I can only afford one date.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow, then?”
“Scott free,” I told him and took off my shirt.

The only pause that I have with older men is that they can, well, smell like old people. Which brings to mind all sorts of acutely un-prurient thoughts and associations. This man was well groomed, and well scented, which broadened the horizons of what I would have been willing to do with him significantly.

“So what would you like?” I asked, letting him pull my underwear off.
“Do you kiss?”
“Passionately,” I assured him.
“I just want to roll around and grope and kiss, and I’d like to come with your dick in my mouth.”

A great deal easier than I expected; downright simple, in fact. It definitely wasn’t his first time, he was an old pro: the money was in my hand before I put down my bag, and he stuck rigidly to his outline. Straddling his face, my hard cock thrust firmly down his throat, he dutifully came, half and hour before I expected to be out of there.

“That was great,” he said. “It’s usually takes me longer to come these days.”
“You should switch up more often,” I told him.
“Actually, it was nice to have someone that doesn’t seem in such desperate straights.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’d like to see you again when I come back in a few months.”

We’ll have to see where I'm at, but I gave him my busniess email.


Weekend Precis

There are a few things in this world that I know:

* The most extraordinary human beings I have known in this world have been women, and none of them have ever been given their due.

* Oppression is assuredly a state of human society as soon as any community puts down roots and decides that it CAN'T change with the seasons.

* It's impossible for me to get hard if I'm stupid enough to take a line of cocaine.

Clients are advised to make peace with all of the above.


Stamp of Authenticity

How refreshing! There really is a service out there on the net for everyone. Want to know just how deplorable your content is? Check it out:

This site is certified 39% EVIL by the Gematriculator

It's just the right amount of evil, really. Additionally, I think it also relates to the percentage of clients I've had who would probably self-identify as "heterosexual".

Quelle bizarre.


Nothing Quite So Sordid

This past week, I've been watching more bad telly than is good for any articulate, sane, inspirited person. Besides the dispossession, I've been feeling restless; which could be the invariable turn of the seasons, but it's possibly entrenched in other anxieties that I'll explain in good time, I'm sure.

Sadly, none are rooted in the sale of sexual companionship. Well, not directly. I have received a couple more hyperbolic text messages from my ill advised one night tryst, one of which claimed that he had been robbed and needed my company. I would like to point out that besides the brief encounter itself, I've only sent him the one text in return. C-R-A-Z-Y, I say.

Note to self: no giving your phone number to johns or random exploits. Ever. All I need right now is a stalker.

The consequence of all this nervous energy is my pacing the apartment (Flatmate is away), and that I'm having a hard time knuckling down to read any of the stack beside my bed: every time I try, I start getting agitated... my focus wanders; so I've been resorting to such bad company as Pimp My Ride. The senselessness stupefies me into submission.

Don't judge me.

Everything finds its resolution in due course, I suppose; all rivers find the sea. I just need to travel the route in my little boat. (I imagine it one of those origami paper jobs, and myself shrunk down with a tricorn hat and a telescope, standing on the bow.)

Oh, look: Quills is on.

[A curiosity: rivers find the sea more languidly than blind reason suggests that they should: most weave their way through sloping plains and lowlands by twists and turns that amount to three times that the flight of the crow: 3.14 to be exact; which is the value of Pi.]


What's The Sound Of One Tap Dripping?

In an attempt to anchor myself and my present emotional maelstrom to an audible anchor, I have been seeking out new music. Everything I came away from home with has emotional resonance with streets I now no longer walk, clubs too far away to attend, and (most horribly) friends inaccessible.

Consequently, I find myself gazing, cloud-eyed, out of windows whenever I put the iPod earphones in.

So far I have got myself onto M83, Pluto, and -- what I can't stop listening to -- The Knife. The Knife really got something. Finally, listening to some music specific to my experiences here, I feel more at home.

Something which I need. I've been woefully dispossessed lately. Hmm.... Maybe if I sprayed this can of Ennui-Away....


Ten Toes Accounted For

Gay or straight, male or female, foot fetishists are da bomb... and thank God I have cute feet.

According to the foot fetishists themselves, anyway. I can't really make distinction between the average okay foot, and the apparently delectable wonder of an enticing foot. Enough enthusiasts have told me that I have the latter to take it to heart, although really, when you think that I could regularly be making money off of them, I should be going for pedicures more often.

The predilection accounts for the easiest of clients, and in many ways, the most personally amusing. Being paid to lie back naked and allow someone to massage your freshly washed feet while you play with yourself, is right up there with staying in bed all day with a good book, far as I'm concerned. The last time I had the pleasure, it was a kindly, bespectacled, middle-aged man who, when you looked at him, brought to mind a whole colour wheel of earth tones and beiges. He set, enraptured, while he took my feet and worked on the toes, and the heel; would push his thumb in a firm arc up the arch. I wiggled my toes. He let out delighted little sighs.

I couldn't stop smiling the entire time. Near the end, I ground my heel into his cock (which was still in his trousers) and he came. Just like that.

I'm telling you: da bomb.