My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part l
Here I am, a guy who taught Sunday School as a good Lutheran and ended up on the other end of my life, after a successful professional career in the str8 world, a gay fiction writer, hustler and porn star.
Getting out from under the 60 hour work week grind of public relations, I finally was able to do something I had wanted to do for years – write gay fiction. Now in SoFlo, I had the time and wrote two works, one a collection of short stores, the other a novella. And I said “fuck you” to the snooty literary agents of the pre-web era and a dying publishing industry by posting my stuff as e-books on Kindle and Nook.
Rationalizing I needed to do first hand research on male prostitution for my next book, what better way to find out than be one. So, very matter of factly one night I plunked down my fifty bucks of Visa dollars and posted a profile on rentboys.com:
Ah, but there were other, deeper motives for my madness. One was my attempt to fulfill 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 a Rentboy tag team for guys looking for double the trouble.
The other was my overactive ego: would someone actually pay me, an aging faggot, even if time had been kind to me, to have sex with them?
A buddy once said to me that he found it pretty pathetic that somebody had to pay for sex. But I heartedly disagree. Sure, sex can be a wonderful exchange between two people, but why can’t it also be a commodity for those willing to buy what they want, just like the newest tech toy or Abercrombie and Fitch polo? Contrary to the notion that only losers pay for sex, there are plenty of good looking guys out there, busy with high power 24/7 careers or entwined in complicated personal lives, who just choose to take the expedient route. I’ve always been an advocate for making prostitution in this country legal and get over our collective Puritanical hang-ups. Make sure the boys and girls are disease free, and tax ‘em, baby.
“Who’s your daddy?” was my on-screen persona, trying to create a market niche distinct from all the pretty boys, 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, and made myself “out only” – their place, not mine. Would-be clients could contact me either via email on the site or my cell phone #, and I used a 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 (it’s all about self-love, baby) that the guy is willing to pay you – PAY YOU – to feel your tool in his mouth or up his butt. You know what an exhilarating high that is? Better than meth.
(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.
Part II Wednesday.