i’m now back to working independently.
remember, working for yourself means you gotta do everything yourself.
organising myself is a pain in the arse. i’m lazy. how lazy? i’m so lazy i wouldn’t get out of the bath the take a shit. so when a client asks ‘i want you to organise 3way’ you’re just asking for a headache. if i was in a city where i had more fuckbuds, that would be fine, but i don’t know many here. so not only do i have to organise myself, but 2 other hookers as well. you might as well ask me to build the fucking great pyramid of giza. the pyramid is more likely to happen than coordinating a fucking orgy
this sounded fairly easy. the client is an older guy, 50s, “beary” and just wants to watch a mate of his (a former escort) get fucked by a few other guys. i scoured online to see what i could get him. Benji was still around, so i shoot him a msg. the only other one that appealed was under the name of “hustler white”. nice little Bruce LaBruce reference. this guy had a great body. then it came to a body pic taken in a bathroom - i recognised the bathroom
i’m a fag. as much as i try to deny it, i’m a fag just like every other fag. we’re innately tuned with style, in particular, hair, fashion and interior decorating. not always successful at it and sometimes far from it, but we have a fair idea of what’s going on. that’s why i believe being a fag is genetic. we ain’t taught this shit - it’s just there. we are, as they say (and unfortunately sing loudly), born this way.
7 weeks ago a friend, Boo Boo originally from Melbourne and now living in Berlin had returned for 2 weeks. he was staying with friends in the northern suburbs. i picked up Boo-Boo* and we went to train at the gym together. i see a bathroom once almost two months ago and i recognise the decor when it shows up in this escort’s picture. by the shape of his jaw and body. i know who it is. and yes, he is hot. i see him at my gym every now and then. i shoot him a msg. he quickly replies saying “he is probably not what the client wants …and by the way, we’ve met before, i’m JJ. I’m boo-boo’s friend.”
i admitted i knew it was him and but didn’t say anything earlier in case he might freak out. after a few messages he believed he’s ‘not what the client wants’. so he was probably just being polite that he was avoiding a possibly weird situation
i referred the client both Benji and JJ’s adverts to look at anyway
then Benji called back to say to say he could not make it. he had another booking
blah blah. blah. blah blah…
then in the end, after looking at the other guy’s ads, the client said “i think i’ll just have you without them”
Fuck! what a pain in the fucking arse! 2 hours. wasted
rim jobs are awesome. i got a hairy arse and despite what people think. some guys love burying their face in a hairy arse. i love grabbing them by their hair (or ears) and suffocating them in it.
but rim jobs can be tricky. i didn’t eat anything questionable in the past 24 hours but i felt a rumble in the bronx and before i knew it i farted in the guy’s mouth
‘poor bugger’ i thought, but he didn’t stop so i thought it was my imagination, then a minute or too later *brrrrrtt!*
okay. that wasn’t my imagination. i farted in his mouth.
you know when you’re taking a dump in a public loo and suddenly a fart rips out. you cringe a little because the empty bowl magnifies the sound of that fart so loud a deaf person could feel it. the vibration would rattle their ribcage. an open mouth is just like a mini-toilet bowl. this echoed. this time it was definately a fart
when you’ve got your face in a dude’s arse it’s not unexpected, but it’s certainly not polite. once i stopped laughing to myself i was gonna say sorry but he keep chowing down
i farted 2 more times in his face. the $70 tip tells me he didn’t object
there’s nothing like talking to someone to really lose interest in them. getting to know someone is the best way to not want to fuck them any more. see them as a human being with a mind of their own - fuck that’s unattractive! if you can make it past a half hour of chit chat and i still got a boner, then you must be a keeper
not only in my personal life but for work as well. i don’t want to see you as a person. i want to see you as an object. if i see you as a person, more often than not i won’t like the person i discover. or won’t find it as sexy, or worse i will pity you and feel sorry for you. then you become a tiresome pity-fuck. Or, even worse than all that (and even less-likely) than that - i will think you’re awesome. then the pressure is on!
so, fuck first. chat later. and that way i don’t waste time becoming mates with someone who is a dud-fuck
where was a i going with this? i know i had some actual work advice and not just my usual moaning…. um… that’s right. you talk too much! in a work situation, stay silent. let them think what they want to think. a client will fantasise about you and create whatever they want you to be in their head.
let them think you’re some drug-dependant cock-whore. let them think you’re secretly raising two kids and struggling to finish your degree. let them think you cry yourself to sleep every night hoping and praying some punter will come along and free you from your hellish life of dick-sucking ass-pounding prostitution
don’t let them know you collect Fabergé eggs. don’t let them know you lie on the sofa under your duvet stuffing tim tams into your face while watching South Park. don’t let them know you’re just doing it to pay off your credit card
let them think what they want to think. there’s nothing unsexier than the truth
i had decided it was to be my final shift at the whorehouse. i was getting grumpy. not much work. not much fun outside of work. some of the sex i had at work was more satisfying than my private life. now that’s fucking sad
i thought about what to say. should i be honest? should i just say, thanks, but i quit? should i just say I’m taking a break and not burn one of the few bridges for work in this town? i hesitate and think about it for far too long…
then i get a text. it’s from this guy i was meant to hook up with online weeks ago but we could never organize a time to meet (mostly on account of him being a total top and me not wanting to get bashed up the ginger all that often) but i had a stressful week and whether i wanted it or not, i reckon i needed a good hard botty bashin’!
i take another look at his picture. 5’8” hairy chest, short beard and muscly as hell. i give him a call back and hear his voice for the first time “G’day! how ya goin’, mate!” it was so over the top i started chuckling. i thought he was faking it. “come over and we’ll give it a bit of bash, eh! whadoya reckon?” he sounded like the goddamn crocodile hunter.
i wash my bits, inside and out, jump on my bike and scoot over. he answers the door still wearing his dirty overalls. he wasn’t faking the voice. he’s genuine and a damn sight hotter than Steve Irwin. he was fucking hot. a great kisser. great cock. big shoulders i just wanted to hang on. i couldn’t help it and got on my knees and started sucking his dick. “aww… you bewdy!” his blokeyness just kicked me up a gear, i grabbed his hands and put the on the back of my head. he knew what that meant and started slamming his cock into my throat. for the first time in weeks i took a back seat and let him throw me around. despite his roughness he was surprisingly gentle in all the right places. he did everything right. he teased my ass enough to know i was ready, pushed me on to the bed and plowed my hole. it wasn’t long before i was throwing my ass back into him. “aww… you champion!”
“FUCK YEAH!” i don’t know what it was. i went fucking nuts. i started pushing back into him and grunting my head off.
we all make fun of the dumb Aussie bogan, and we secretly want to fuck them. i know because i recently fell in love with one. it was a bad move, but you can’t control what you want. intellectualise it all you want. we know what we want in a relationship. we know what we want in a partner - we want to love and respect and find an equal… a soul mate. at least we think that’s what we’re supposed to want. but as a rich old man wants the pretty dumb blond, we fags still just want the man so dumb that all he can do is fuck! if you’re a top, you want him so stupid that the most intelligent conversation to come out of their mouth is the gagging sound they make on the end of your cock. if you’re a bottom, you want him so dumb he can’t spell his own name, but he can plow you so hard he’ll split you in two.
and the plumber did. he plowed the hell out of me and when it came time to harvest i came a bucket of cum all over myself and his Eureka flag doona cover. we collapsed and then cuddled for a bit and talked about motorbikes. awesome
i jumped back on trevor, my shitty little 250cc and screeched off back across town. there’s nothing quite like getting your ass plowed and then getting back on a motorbike. every vibration of the engine shudders up your spine. it’s incredible. by the time i got to the manor i was calm and relaxed as hell and the plumber even sent me the most Aussie thank-you text i’ve ever had
i pick up a few pizzas for the people at to the manor. sure it’s raining, but it’s yet another quiet night with no intros for the boys and only a couple of jobs for the girls. they’re bored and angry. not much has changed in the 2 weeks i’ve taken off. i hang around for a few hours and give it a final chance. still nothing happens and one by one the whore fall asleep in front of the tv
i go to Miss Vic at reception and tell her i’m not coming after tonight. she’s upset, but completely understands. it’s not her fault, or the brothel, there’s not enough work for the people here. we have a great chat, mostly full of dirty dick and fart jokes, she gives me a big hug and i say good bye
i try. really i try. but i’m a bad person. sometimes i just hate people. and sometime people deserve your hate. they beg for it. sometimes they open their mouths and they barely utter a few words before you just want to smack the teeth right out of them
one such girl was Heaven
i thought Heaven was a dude. so much gender confusion had gone on in this brothel that i thought she was just a skinny dude in a cheap blue dress. turns out it she was a chick in a cheap dress that cost a lot of money
there was only 3 of us on one night, young naive (but really not so naive) Jasmine, Heaven and me with the vivacious Miss Vic on reception.
i was sitting in the kitchen when Heaven started the usual conversation “had any bookings today?”
“oh really? i don’t understand that. you’re a good looking man.” she always seemed tired or stoned when she talks “you’re not like the other guys. if i came here i would hire you.”
“aww shucks, thanks heaven”
i went and grabbed a pizza for dinner. Heaven stumbled into the room sniffing. “mmm that smells good! is that pizza? hmm smells really good. is that from the across the road? i love pizza. i’d love a whole one but i never eat more than a slice….”
i knew what she was hinting at and said nothing for enough time to make it uncomfortable. ”would you like some?”
“oh really?” i swear she was more stoned than she was 30 minutes ago. her eyes looked so heavy i felt a yawn building in the back of my throat “i can pay you back. i’ll get a pizza next time and we can share it”
“just… have some. it’s okay”
she eats the pizza and blows more smoke up my ass about how attractive a man i am and it’s a shame i’m not scoring work. basically repeating herself from earlier
at around 10pm Miss Vic calls out for an intro for the girls. Jasmine bounces in like a gazelle on a velvet jumping castle. Heaven staggers like a newborn foal slithered fresh out of the bloody sack, hooves scratching on the lino desperate to find stable footing. eyes struggling to stay open. the 2 girls get a few intros in during the night, and it’s no surprise Jasmine scores them all.
the girls have a brief exchange in the other room. Jasmine trots upstairs for a booking while Heaven bursts into the kitchen, smashing into the walls and corners like a drunken dodgem car to make a cup of tea
“you know what she said to me? Jasmine just said you look tired!” heaven jumped into a tirade, “i said to her ‘that’s not very nice’ and she said ‘i don’t care i can say what i want” and i said…” i swear her eyes were no longer blinking in unison. as she went on and on i tried to guess what she was on. smack? no track marks. no pinholes. and she never spent much time in the loo to jack up or bong on. maybe just good ol’ xanax? i noticed i’d stopped listening. her rant just went crazier “i wonder what Jasmine is saying to the client in an intro about me. i think the receptionists are telling the client ‘don’t pick heaven. pick the other girl’. you know ever since i told them i got a day job and need to leave early i don’t get as many bookings. tonight i haven’t had any, Jasmine got them all…”
…that’s because you’re staggering around in a cheap skirt hitched up around your scrawny waist like a smacked out skankwhore, you stupid bitch…
“they’ve got something against me. they all do…” her paranoid rant went on
finally i was left alone and Miss Vic came into to whisper, “do you think Heaven is on something?”
without a blink i said ”that bitch is fucking nuts! she’s off her tits on xanax. please don’t leave me alone with her again”
the following week she thought her flatmates were going through her mail, sifting through her room and taking money and xanax from her purse. that could well be true but later that same day Blake and i were in the kitchen when Heaven burst in “someone just got into my locker! do you think someone else could have a key to my locker? my hairbrush has moved and a hair clip is gone!”
…did you just use the brush and is that hair clip in your hair? but i remained silent. Blake looked at me and i looked away. in shock, his mouth didn’t close for a good 10 minutes
if that’s heaven, i’m so glad i’m going to hell
i knew it was was always going to be tough working in a brothel. i was bound to not like a few people (if not all of them). it was my biggest hesitation
when i lived overseas in Amsterdam, one woman i worked with called me a ‘slow burner’. in a workplace situation i won’t steamroll my way with a bang. i lay low. work hard. reveal nothing about myself until i feel it’s necessary and i’m comfortable to do so. first impressions last, especially in this industry. be myself and let them get to know me slowly. so if somebody to hates me, i want them to hate me for me!
one that started off with a bang was Amber. she was great when she first started. bright. friendly. chatty and interested in everything you had to say. when people were down, bored or started to nod off in boredom she would perk everyone one
after a few weeks, this perk became a pain in the ass.
one day everything was fine. the next, Gypsy (my favourite tranny in the world right now) would screw her nose up at Amber. i didn’t know why. Gyspy wouldn’t say
a day later, another hooker would roll their eyes behind her back.
pretty soon even i would roll my eyes to her face. she just wouldn’t shut the fuck up. she would talk to you, and you think she would be listening to you answer, but regardless of what you said her response would just continue in the direction is was already going. she stopped having conversations and just talked at you, half the time she wouldn’t even be looking at you. she’s just pause briefly to catch her breath and give the impression there was a dialogue going on. after a while she wouldn’t even look at you, she would just ramble off about the last job she had. you couldn’t get away from her. i used to want an intro or a booking for the money, now i’d pray for an intro just to get away from whatever endless conversation about herself she locked you into. i don’t care if they’re paying. i’d suck an old man’s dick just to get away!
initially i didn’t mind her overtaking the tv and watching re-runs of Grey’s Anatomy. it didn’t bother me that she had seen each episode a thousand times before yet would still shhhh you if you spoke over the top of the tv. i didn’t mind that she took the role of the manager and told you to help with the washing of sheets and towels even if you had not been the one to dirty them in a booking
one night i was watching Cruising. the cult 80s film with Al Pacino catching a gay serial killer in new york. william friedkin. it’s got some dark fucked up shit in it. hugely controversial. cinemas were protested as heavily by Gay Rights groups as much as Basic Instinct was in the 90s.
Amber walks in during the last 10 minutes of a very suspenseful film and “what’s this?”
“what are you watching?”
”Cruising! it’s a movie about a gay serial killer”
“what’s going on?”
“gay guys are getting killed …serially. it’s right at the end”
“oh my god that’s shocking.” as Al Pacino is having the confrontation with the guy he believes in the killer in a park Amber opens up her laptop and starts talking to the girl next to her, “i didn’t win my netball game tonight…”
”i’m watching this movie!” i bark. Amber goes quiet, only to start talking again 10 seconds later
i get up and check the outdoor lounge to see if they’re watching the same thing. less than a metre from where i was sitting Amber changes the channel to an episode of Friends. i take a deep breath and finish watching the movie in the next room
pretty soon i had joined the ranks of haters. when i heard her loud shrill voice i just wanted to rip her blonde hair out from their brown roots
it wasn’t vicious what these types of people do. they’re not even conscious of it. unless it affects them directly, they’re oblivious to everyone elses feelings but their own. in Amber’s case, she’s just pre-occupied with herself. she must be hell to hire for a booking but she is a nympho, that’s why she does this work. it seems like the only way to shut her up is my by shoving a cock in her mouth
last week a guy had asked me if i wanted to be part of his research project. it would take an hour of my time and all i do is talk about myself. i can do that. i talk. they listening to somebody interesting. sounds like a win-win situation to me! other people are so damn boring i talk about myself all the time. it’s clear i’m so fucking interesting. who could blame him? i endeavour to become a modern day Quinten Crisp. aside from my strong desire to dress like a dandy in my winter years, it’s a dream of mine to be taken to lunch and where i’ll sit and spew out my embarrassing sexual anecdotes and one sided opinions for the duration of a free meal into whatever hungry ears will listen
his name is Andrew and he studies at RMIT. he is researching how sex workers advertise themselves online, how they present themselves and how they deal with… blah blah blah brainy stuff (with a side of perve). pretty much “how are you going about advertising?” because of the recent changes in how advertising for sex workers is handled in Victoria since the introduction of the PCA/SWA - a registration number that must be shown with all advertisements
what does PCA stand for? Prostitution Control Act. sounds a little Nazi-ish? that’s because it is. and the act makes little sense or has any real purpose other than control. PCA - the name alone conjures visions of desperate naked filth covered whores in neck braces chained together pulling a chariot through town for everyone to spit on. at least to does to me and now i got one hell of a chubby growing with that scenario playing over in my mind.
in the last few months it has since changed from PCA to the SWA (Sex Workers… something or other… fuck. i don’t know… but it’s worded a little less harshly). you must give all your details to the Small Business Licencing Authority and they brand you with a scarlet letter (and a number) so they know who is advertising. no information is given to police, taxation department, local councils or any government office. so, for what purpose does the PCA/SWA exist? other than shaming individuals out of working independantly and into working for a brothel, who knows? but Victorian Legislation can change at any time and those details can affect you later in life (like applying for a visa to another country, like the USA where it isgrounds for deportation - criminal record, nazi, terrorism and prostitution. that country only recently lifted the ban on visiting HIV+ tourists)
the state of Victoria is sounding evermore… well… Victorian. (She’s the prudish catholic Queen of England that like getting fucked by a horse, right? )
i was more than happy to help out with Andrew’s research. most people seem to run and hide from these kinds of things assuming it’s either someone gathering information for the police, a pervert or just a nosey little guy getting some info on how to become a manwhore. he emailed the appropriate documents on what his research meant. he was paying $50 for my time (the standard that all university research offers it’s subjects). and i dug around on facebook searching his name and RMIT and he came up. so it was a good bet that he was genuine
Andrew was a damn cool guy. making it known all his about his research before the interview started and offering any help i might need (in the form of a beer). he knew a fair bit about the industry already and was keen to hear more about other people’s experiences. instead of having a beer, i had a strong coffee and therefore wouldn’t shut the fuck up. every question he asked i rambled off way too much information. fuck giving ecstacy or using interrogation methods on me, just feed me good strong coffee and i couldn’t shut up if i tried. we went way over the hour and so many answers opened up many more questions we didn’t get to
talking to him reminded me that i’m more grounded about this kind of work than i thought. that i do love this job more than any other that i’ve ever had, mostly due to the blatantly apparent job satisfaction and great pay, and i have my head screwed on when it comes to this. really, i’ve got bigger problems than this. it’s just a job. not a career. and it’s not all that i do with my life. if your job defines you, then you’re a dick.
thank fuck he didn’t ask about love and relationships and stuff…