My Month as a Rentboy

So, you ask, why did I do it when I didn’t need the money and at an age when most guys – straight or gay – are more content to have their remote control than a mouth sitting on their crotch? Well, there were three reasons why I plunked down my fifty bucks of Visa dollars and posted a profile:

Reason #1: It was my way of fulfilling a fantasy suggested by my dearly departed meth head/fuck buddy/clone Mitch, who had already been a guy for hire back in New York, that we play as a Rentboy tag team for guys looking for double the trouble.(See “Ode to Mitch” on my other blog, “ though he wasn’t fiction, that’s for sure..)

Reason #2: Like feminist Gloria Steinem posing as a Playboy bunny back in the 60’s to do an expose on women’s rights, I wanted to do firsthand research on male prostitution for my next book which would include two out-of-work blue collar bi-brothers who leave the bleakness of rural PA to mine their fortunes in the asses of sunny south Florida.

Reason # 3: I did it purely for the kicks. Would someone actually pay me, an aging faggot even if time had been kind to me, to have sex with them? I soon found out they would. “Who’s your daddy?” was my on-screen persona and I openly admitted I was over 40 in my ad (how much over 40 I conveniently left out), but rationalized that tidbit with the tagline, “but you did say you wanted a daddy, didn’t you?” I low bowed my hourly rate to $150 so I’d have a better chance at scoring, given the stiff competition, out only, of course. Would be clients could contact me either via email on the site or my cell phone # and I used a second Tracfone just for that so if or when I had any issue associated with my new career – as in being stalked, like I should have such problems – I could chuck the phone just like a drug dealer.

So what does it take to be a Rentboy, besides, of course, some alluring physical attributes and a lot of moxie? (a) The ability to do it with just about anyone, and if you’re playing the top like me, you know dicks don’t lie, which I figured wouldn’t be a problem given some of the loser tricks I’ve had over the years. You just put yourself in a fantasy mode, right? (b) A feeling of super-superiority that you’re so hot, the guy is willing to pay you – PAY YOU – to feel your tool in his mouth or his butt. You know what an exhilarating high that is? Better than coke. (c) The absolute resistance to ask the guy what he looks like. Yes, you need to know what he’s looking for, but those big bills on the night stand are what are supposed to arouse you, not whether he looks like Woody Allen’s older brother.

But when a week went by after posting my ad and I got no takers, I was convinced I had pushed the envelope too far, that I was a jerk for even thinking I could pull this off at my age – with all the twenty something, thirty something porn star quality meat that was vying for that same universe of hungry, lonely men. What was I trying to do? Make the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s oldest male hooker?

Ah, but my feelings of dejection were premature. At the beginning of my second week I got a hit.

Tomorrow: my first paying trick

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