What Did I Study In School?

I dearly want to share the new backstory that I've come up with for work with you folks here, but it would compromise what is quite accurately surmised here and here. Suffice to say, unless I'm disingenuously flippant, I'm not very good at hiding that I am, in fact, educated; and, as they say, a smart cookie. My humor, especially, gives me away. In the past, this has worked for me (before I came here, a disproportionate majority of my regulars were from, shall we say, academic professions); however, it does make one more conspicuous in a trade where the average formal education level is quite low.

A particularly frightening relationship I had with a client last year taught me that my precautions, which I had started to think a little excessive, were valid. The fixated are Fucking Fixated, let me tell you... another time, though.

What has to be evident when a client asks you what you really do (or what you're studying, or what's your background) is that you're transparent: that there's nothing more to see, nothing occluding their inquisition. Irresistibility starts with a mystery. Especially if you happen to be the distraction, the excitement, from their usual life. Most people are capable of devoting strange (re: scary) amounts of resources towards personal projects. You don't want uncovering your own background to be one of them. Putting on an act is all well and good, but it's tiring; and having sex with a stranger completely sober, and without the butterflies of possibility, is exhausting enough; the idea of keeping up an elaborate charade makes me want to faint:

Oh, you know, this and that. I teach orphaned teenagers the piano on Tuesdays, and I'm out of town most of the week, taking care of Mom -- she's off the meds, but in terrible pain -- the rest of the time, I'm researching English Medieval Linguistics. Sorry? Should I loosen that for you?

Keep it simple; keep it safe; and for god's sake, make it boring enough that no one has any interest in following it up.

That being said, the story I've come up with this time is positive artistry; and it relies on me delivering it with boredom, which is part of its excellence. I mean, chances are, if we're talking about me, I am bored.

Must be off. Flatmate is writing flatmate's own name in light with a sparkler off the balcony. Pictures must be taken.

All The While, Harangued By Time

It takes so much @%$!in' effort to get out of the house: shower, scrub, shave, scent; then the clothes, then the other set of clothes, because the first made you look stupid; but what's with all the accoutrement? When did all that happen? Besides the regular kit in the bag, there's book (chippy enough to focus on in transitional or noisy spaces), notebook (with empty pages, not all scribbled on), iPod (charged), pen (working), and the phone (also, charged)... that is, the phone. Where's the bloody phone? You can't leave the flat without the bloody.... ah. Phone.

And the fucking keys, which are smaller than the phone.

I may have to reconsider the amount of lead time I need before getting out the door.

Trouble With (ahem) Love

I slept with him on Friday. The barrage of text messages which followed were for the most part ignored, the calls deliberately unanswered. Yesterday while I was shopping, by some crewel stroke of coincidence, I was accosted by the fellows flatmate (I had met briefly before the night's naked wrestling commenced) who pleaded with me to get in touch with the guy. "Um. Okay?' I said, before beating a hasty retreat.

Last night, inching down to sleep, I heard a siren. Flummoxed in my duvet, I twisted, reached over, and looked at the blinking screen of my phone:

...what did last weekend mean? Was it just one night, or something more? You never answer my phone calls or reply to text messages... tell me what you want from us... I think about you alot, please give me some answers.

What did it what? With all the words in the English language, how can you choose to arrange those 45 or so into such a clichéd, maudlin whine, with seemingly so little effort? I blame the proliferation of poor melodrama on set and screen: if Jennifer Anniston wasn't ejecting this crap from her mouth, I wouldn't have to deal with it now.

In the four conscious hours that I knew him, he seemed a nice sort. Balanced? I couldn't really say, but nice. He had a nice cock, certainly; and it was nice of him to drive me home in the morning; but I mean really, have some self-respect man: "sometime" does not mean every hour, on the hour. Those are time-s. Presumably, up until the time we met, those 10 hours previous, to when he started this little digital-stalk, he had a life independent and free sexual obsession. What's stopping him from returning to it? Perhaps my lack of response: silence is being interpreted as a quite pining.

So this morning I sent him off a text, that was (I hope) a polite, firm, let-down. Much like our pick-up, come to think of it; but, maybe I should have sent him back this:

I'm a hooker. The first one was free. If you wanna go again it's going to cost you; and no discounts.

Sorted

"You're sure you are, only, you know... active?"

I sighed. "To be honest, I can probably go so far as being versatile with a regular. If we get along well."

"Oh, I see," he said nodding sagely. "You're inexperienced. It's okay."

Now, I know I didn't say that. I've ridden that pony Backwards Cowboy, thank you very much, especially when I was younger. I just don't like it much; unless I'm real comfortable, or he's a fucking hot, down and dirty, slam me up against a wall and do me sorta fella. That's alright, but I take serious issue with those stupid boys who complain that it hurts, and they don't like it, and then want you to do all the work, slam back into them, climb on top and get them off all the while they murmur about beauty, and wanting you so much. I can feel my eyes rolling just thinking about it.

If you're going to top, fucking top already. I certainly do.

B can think what he likes, as long as I don't have to fend it off too often. It turns out that he'd been in the middle of domestic commitments: visiting family and boyfriend issues; and I had been getting seriously concerned. With the Stupid Job now out of the way, if work didn't start materializing soon, I was going to have to find another, probably even more puerile activity to pay the bills. Or skip the country, which would defeat the purpose of me coming here at all.

"Is there enough work?" The concern that kept me up last night was that maybe the community wasn't in need of a man-on-man action Agency as much as I had imagined it would be.

"Oh, yes," he said with an affirmative eye widening. "I have you're pictures. It took a while to get organized this past week--" it's been two, "but I have two men. Nice guys. They're interested in you. Now that you're free there'll be no problem."

I also realized that not everyone who comes through B's door is likely to actually be any good at this type of work. It might seem like a fine idea at the time, but you don't really know until you're in it, naked, sweating and with a mouthful of something or other, that you find out if you can keep it up; and for men that's the real issue: keeping it up.

I happen (happily) to get off on Eros: the situation, the basic aromatics of lust. Even a whiff gives me a boner. Beauty's nice and all, but sex, sex doesn't have to be beautiful; it just needs to smell and taste right.

B's being cautious because he's not sure I'll be any good. "You seem like a nice boy," he said to me when we first met, and I realize now that that might be a dubious quality in a prostitute, indicative of one that might not stay around; or, get scared and run off. Maybe even in the middle of something.

Oh, dear. So little does he know.

Condolences

On call has turned out to be not called. At all. Which is problematic, as it's hard to be a hooker if you're not hooking. I'm willing to accept that Easter is not a busy time for whores of all varieties, but I mean, really. I've read four novels, one book of criticism, a comic book anthology, and still no escapades to speak of.

So I had to resort to the more usual sort, and set out on Friday to slake my bodies randy-tom feeling the old fashioned way, and pulled at the bar. He was smaller than me, and it'd been a while, so there was a certain amount of me tossing him about, pulling him up to my face, holding him there while I attacked him with my tongue; then twisting him round so I could fuck him. You know, recreation. I do think I was still drunk when I got up in the morning at his, because I made the careless, kind-hearted gesture of leaving him my phone number before he drove me home.

I've had five dead-click messages and several texts in less than two days. I miss you so much, was one of the last ones.

Funny how you can go from zero, to needy, to crazy in such a short period of time.

I'm going to sort out this Agency nonsense this afternoon. I mean, it's not like I'm not hot. I've been at the gym and everything, and this boy needs new shoes.

Alright.

I have an excuse. Not for the madness that overtook me or the infatuation that I suddenly had with in media res... certian things have no explanation, but for the lack of posting, yes. Let's just chalk it up to too much time being spent cooped up in the apartment with no where to put my boner. Thank goodness that some things come to an easy resolution!

As for the formatting issues, after I have a nap, I'll be going back and fixing everything.

Light Comes On, Light Goes Out

Whilst working at the Stupid Job, I was intrigued by two young women. They were conspicuous in their beauty and remarkably well done up, especially for the venue: not quite in evening wear, but deficidedly not formal; tony, but not vulgar for the situation: black straps, a shimmer of silver, and high high-heels. It became more mysterious when I overheard their conversation. Both were from obviously different backgrounds, their accents were more than half a world apart; which is not unusual in itself, people do make friends outside of their heritage, but their body language was decidedly remote. My first impression was that they were waiting to be collected by their dates, at which point a tidy foursome would depart, but they continued without the anticipated apparition. Then one said to the other:

"You have to make them think they're getting more than what they wanted, by doing something unexpected. Then they don't push you."

The second nodded empathetically.

I looked again at their long, well coiffed but decidedly unbound tresses.

Oh, I realized. Working girls.

Ring My Bell

An unexpected side effect is that I am now paranoid about leaving my phone behind for any length of time; out to the gym and the grocery and the Motorola left at home on the kitchen table. I started to worry about ten minutes into my workout, and practically ran home with my milk and eggs. Of course, I hadn't missed anything: no bookings, and no friendly calls. Either or both would make me feel loved, though in decidedly different ways.

Professional?

I don't like the photos much, but I'm in the book: mounted, so to speak.

Let's hope novelty makes up for refinement... at least until I can get the flatemate to take better shots.

I'm on call as of Monday.

The Stupid Job

Blah blah blah, clean-up, blah-blah blah blah, those need to go upstairs, blah blah pay more attention, yadda yadda blah-diddy-blah blah blah and a something something..."

It's not that I don't care, it's just that tomorrow I'm going to quit.

Which reminds me: book an appointment for a Brazilian.

The Maid's Uniform

The desires of men paying for sexual contact with other men run in two broad, avid rivers, and for the enthusiasts, never the twain shall meet. On the one hand, the muscle gods: big, immovable, and often, as a plus (as these things go), indifferent. On the other, we have the boys: the young ones; beautiful because they’re fresh, and open, and either guileless or clueless (to varying extremes).

These are the two flesh-brand identities generally marketed, and as they are common, I presume requested regularly. I guess I fall into the category of the latter; a demi-athletic variety. The most amusing thing about the variety system is that presumption is part of the fantasy, and therefore, as a good business boy, I’m out to help them buy into it.

Gay male stereotypes relating to the sex trade have yet to develop into as wide a range as present in the straight world. This could probably be attributed to the fact that being the payer is assumed to be dominant to the payee. Women have been regulated to the strata of biddable comport by society for eons; the variations on the theme have had centuries to develop, and have given us the array of saucy examples: the schoolgirl, the librarian; the secretary and the nurse. The attitudes are definitely similar across the gender gap, except for one cardinal point. Implicit in the domination or seduction of the young man by the older is the promise that that boy will one day be a man. One day his rod will be the rule. The same cannot be granted assuredly for women. To take advantage of the window time allows for taking advantage of the boy, the declarative senior has to make his move before a certain age, or the tractable will become intract soon enough: opportunity is not a lengthy visitor.

(After that, your option is to lust for the other unattainable, the devoted bodybuilder: he who took the path you couldn’t get off the couch/out of the office/away from the wife for.)

So what have I got to work with? The young jock. Um… the studious dreamer. The unusually wise youngster with so much promise….

(There’s also the openly gay, single minded, sex-starved, hormone driven twink; but I consider him to be a sub-genre: he’s the psyche all those daddies want to discover in their guileless protégés.)

It remains to be seen how well I’m going to be able to pull this off. I’m going to be practicing rapt attention in the mirror. Maybe say “um” a lot, and answer everything like it’s a question.

Then again, I might be giving this whole process too much credit.

“Hey. Come in. Take off your pants.”

Can and will.

Sorry About Yesterday

"Come in Saturday."
"Saturday?"

Saturday.

I just want to have sex with middle aged men for money. As goals go, how hard can that be to accomplish!?!

Alright, if we're being honest, LATE-middle aged men.

The Only Thing

Worse than getting in my way, is wasting my time when I haven’t brought something to read. Waiting an hour for a photographer who doesn’t show, or answer his phone, falls into this category. Foolishly thinking that the errand would be a quick one, I was mired in the irksome purgatory of the Gay-Kitchen, as the boyfriend of the absent paparazzo fiddled with the little dog, and I was subjected to broad hints, being dropped by one of the Boys, of an impending career in glossy print; where, presumably, he would be subjected to the ministrations of more punctual shutterbug.

It’s not like I don’t have anything else to do with my time.

That, coupled with payroll issues courtesy of the Stupid Job, has filled this day with half-starts and un-accomplishments.

Bah! I say. When do I get to the naked suction leading to release? The release foremost in my mind being from this relative poverty: that which makes it impossible to live my life as a real person.

There’s an irony here.…

But you get over the hurdles, figure out you can handle the bloody thing, then just want to get on with it; and in the meantime, the Stupid Job, continues to be stupid; and not even pay on time.

What’s left to do?

I know! Let’s make a bushel of pomodoro sacchetti, drink a bottle of Coonawarra Shiraz and watch disturbingly funny cartoons on the Internet.

Up To It

After spending a certain amount of time preparing, I stepped out into the living room, drained the Heineken, and cleared my throat.

"I'm off," I said to my roommate. "Am I cute enough that strangers will want to fuck me?"

"Um," I got back, "you put it so crassly."

"Oh. What I meant to say was 'play with me naked'. I'm like a big action figure with movable parts."

"You're sure that you want to do this?"

"Sure. I think it'll be a kick." Truthfully, I was rattled enough that I needed the beer to even out my nerves.

On the way over, Nine Inch Nails' "Eraser" randomly played from my iPod:


need you

(okay.)

dream you

(might as well.)

find you

(I'll be easy to find.)

taste you

(probably.)

fuck you

(there are so many words for it.)

use you

(I guess...)

scar you --


I turned it off.

The Agency, as it advertises, is discreet: little door, little bell, and out of the way (shocking I know). It turns out that B is of Eastern European stock, though what specific variety is still to be determined. When he opened the door, he made an appraising kind of "hmm" sound in the back of his throat. Three times. Considering the industry, I was expecting sleazy, what I needed was sleazy on a manageable level. Idiosyncratic lechery, not creepy; and I wasn't about do to anything ridiculous like audition for free.

"So, you've done this kind of work before?"

I told him yes, and in what capacity.

The set-up for the entire operation is different than I expected, which (oddly enough) is what I expected; and, given where I am, figured that the money would somehow be less than what I would think to be reasonable, which it is; but only marginally. Going over my details was easy enough, both real and imaginary. (By the time I'm done working in this field, there're going to be a small handful of innocuous names I'll be able to answer to without batting an eye.) It looks like I'm going to actually have to work there, at least initially. There's a two week trial period, what it takes to "see how it goes".

I didn't really go through my entire questionnaire, but enough is enough. There is something familiar about the place, the smell of sex, and an illicit back-room feel to the dim corridor. It's an atmosphere I can manage. I can fill in the blanks tomorrow when I go back to get my portfolio shots done.

On the way home the iPod played Norah Jones. "Turn Me On."

This I Know

Three things I am certain of leading up to tomorrow:

* I will not be doing incalls.

* The Agency will not be taking more than 30% of my fee.

* No one is going to be sticking anything more than a finger up my bumb for money. Maybe for fun, but it's not something I want to tackle on the job.

Codename B

My phone rang several times early this afternoon, each time the display announcing Private. I took this to mean the Agency, as the numbers of all the people I know here are already in my directory, and none of them are classified. No message was left after any of the calls, which to my mind implys a certain amount of canny discretion; either that or paranioa.

B answered the phone when I did my follow up later. He has the indeterminate accent of someone who has learned English in a variety of locations, so is presumably not originally from the country I reside in now. We discussed when I might come in for a meeting.

"Yes. Come in for a chat and we'll see how it goes."

Which I figure is a euphemism for "see how hot you are and if you know what you're getting into."

Indeed we will.

The Waiting Game

The outgoing message at the Agency is actually very nice: clear, masculine tones; it's professional and direct. I've left a message, in a foreign accent. My accent, but I can only hope it speeds up the process.

What was that I said about patience?