Yes, I write gay fiction, and no, I didn’t make this up.
I think I told you that a couple of years ago I went on Rentboy, the paid escort service, for a month as a way of doing research for a novel I was writing about a hustler –and, yes, to cater to my fragile ego. Well, I wouldn’t call it a second career but in that month four guys – not all shabby either, a few decent looking business types in for the night – put down a hundred and fifty bucks on the bureau to have an hour of sex with me. (More like forty-five minutes – the rest of the time we spent talking.)
Soon after that a producer from Pantheon Productions out in San Francisco, who saw my rentboy ad, did a solo shoot of me while he was in town for one of his company’s sites, hotoldermale, for which he paid me two hundred and fifty bucks for fifty seven minutes of me playing with myself for the camera. Easiest money I ever made in my life.
End of that chapter.
Now out of the blue a few weeks ago, another producer, this time local, approached me about doing a fuck video – his guys were looking for an older guy over fifty and I fit the bill – but he was going to pay $250 for two hours of work and the money wouldn’t be forthcoming until two weeks after the shoot. Plus, Viagra or no Viagra, I gotta have an arousal factor, and when he showed me pics of the bottom he had in mind for my scene, humpy as the guy was, I just wasn’t getting the twitch. Then came my terrible head cold – I rarely get sick – that wrecked my Memorial Day weekend – the shoot was scheduled that week – and I just went “nyeht” to the whole thing.
End of that chapter.
Well, in the meantime, who comes a-wooing like the Sirens did Ulysses than rentboy. “We want you back!” and making an offer I couldn’t refuse, they cut their monthly rate for my ad in half to twenty five bucks, less than I’d spend slugging down drinks on a Saturday night, so I succumbed. And this time, I decided to use a new strategy. Instead of “Who’s Your Daddy?” I came up with the tagline, “Got a Fur Fetish? Then I’m Your Wet Dream” to differentiate myself from all the smooth hot young boys with the big dongs old enough to be my son I would be competing with.
My marketing ploy worked and I soon generated some interest, not all welcomed.
Two calls were from guys who were gonna be in town after I leave for PA for the summer; and the third call was from a prick who knows, maybe one of the cupie doll boys, who basically told me I was a piece of shit and who would pay for me except a troll. I responded with a simple, “They do, and they’re not,” but his e-mail address was bogus and my message was deposited in cyber-purgatory. And probably the guy was right. At my age, I should be buying, not selling.
Well, this past Saturday morning I was debating whether to bake myself on the beach when that call came from, well, we’ll call him “Rusty.”
“I just go ga-ga over furry men,” he babbled on, “and you are IT.”
“OK,” I replied, matter of factly, like I was scheduling an appointment with my financial planner. “When?” I knew where – his place – I was “out only.”
“In a couple of hours – got to get to the ATM.” That was enough to give me a hard-on.
So I decided to lie naked in my backyard and work on my no-tan line tan. I honestly didn’t think this was going to happen when Rusty called back around noon.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” he said joyfully. We set it for 1 and I got his address and mapquested it. He was on the other side of town, about a half hour from me, but, hey, business is business. Plus I had to prove something to myself and that asshole who had e-mailed me. And one trick like Rusty paid for my ad with a nice profit of a hundred and twenty-five bucks. So…
Now, the first time I did my rentboy gig, all my friends looked at me like I was nuts. “How – how can you do it with just – just ANYBODY?” Ah, as I later read in doing my research about male prostitutes, it’s not the john that necessarily turns them on. It’s the fact he wants you bad enough, he’ll pay for you. And that sure as hell worked for me and Mr. Peter.
The second I saw Rusty come out of his pretty elegant house, I knew he was wearing a wig, and on closer inspection he reminded me of a taller, thinner Michael Douglas playing Liberace in that HBO flick, “Behind the Candelabra.” But no matter. My job was keep my client happy, and within five minutes of walking in we dispensed with the business portion of our arrangement – all in twenties which I tucked in the back pocket of my cutoffs – and we proceeded with what I was there for.
Frankly, doing Rusty or should I say having Rusty do me was like taking candy from a baby. For one solid hour – after all that’s what he bought – I lay on the bed while he sucked my dick to oblivion. Hell, I don’t think I even needed the Viagra I had popped on my way over. And when he wasn’t down on me, he was licking my fur or sticking his tongue up my hairy hole. I had to hold back a few times, he was that good. And after I finally spurt my load, fifty minutes into our little session – timing is key – we talked like I did with my other clients. He mentioned he rarely used rentboy and found the young pretty boys pretty useless as bed mates. Me? I make my johns feel special with a lot of dirty talk – “You know how to keep your furry buddy feel real good, don’t you fucker?” – and like I often say, the college course I found the most useful in my professional life as a PR guy and now this was my acting class. Then we exchanged professional career notes. I had taught college after a thirty year PR career in NYC, and he was a retired elementary school teacher who had recently hung it up with a nice pension.
“Your pictures don’t do you justice,” he said as we parted sixty seven minutes after I had arrived. And I silently stuck my finger up to that nameless prick who called me a piece of shit as I got into my car.
Feeling good – who wouldn’t – I stopped on the way home at the supermarket for a hoagie, and was ready to reach for a credit card when I realized I had a hundred and sixty bucks in cash in my back pocket (Yep, I counted it. All there and all real.) And as I walked up to the deli counter, who do I see but my bear webdate from Thursday night with his partner, all domestic-like, doing their food shopping.
I gave Jeff a thumbs up, he gave me a quick smiling glance, as bed buddies do in public when they’re with their partners, and I grabbed my hoagie, ready for some real meat of my own.