Sometimes, in describing to someone what I do, I find myself compelled to sweeten things a bit. It doesn’t seem to matter whether I care what this person thinks, whether or not I like them, or whether I think they’re judging me on how carefully reasoned my responses are. It’s something more innate to the nature of what I do and more specifically to the prevention of negative reaction from any potentially interested parties. In essence, it’s something I find I just have to do.
I don’t ever mean to present my career as a nonstop glamourama of money and cocks and presents and travel. It isn’t. There are parts of it that are very financially (and otherwise) rewarding, and parts of it that are tedious and awful. But for some reason, whenever I talk about it–the way someone who works at a bank or does data entry might talk about their job – bemoaning a terrible boss or a situation with a coworker–I feel nearly ashamed to address any of the negative parts and simply gloss over them with a laugh and a hair toss.
“Oh no! I can always get it up! That’s never a problem!”
“No! But I can totally see why you’d think a drunk man throwing up on my shoe in his hotel lobby might ‘kill the mood!’”
“Haha! No! It’s no trouble at all! I love keeping my gentials precision groomed at all times ‘just in case!’”
I haven’t worked out exactly why this is, but my suspicion is that I’m ever in fear of the “Well – maybe you shouldn’t be a PROSTITUTE then, hmm?” reaction. Needless to say, I’ve gotten that before.
I’ve written before about my lack of interest, generally in what other people think about what I do, but sometimes there are circumstances that require me to put on a professional demeanor, even when confronted with that “maybe you shouldn’t be a PROSTITUTE then, hmm?” reaction. But it seems unfair that I shouldn’t get to complain about MY hard day at work to party goers as well then, doesn’t it!
And there are hard days. I make it my personal policy not to ever take a client because I ‘have to,’ (meaning because rent is due, or because I want to go out and live it up) which keeps me out of a great deal of trouble. And I also rarely take even same-day clients. I’m deliberately difficult to schedule so that I can always be well prepared and avoid dealing with clients when I’m just not in the fucking mood (all puns intended, I suppose). But even with the most careful planning and the best of preparations, things can go south surprisingly quickly when one factors in the ego of a naked man and his wallet.
One of the worst experiences I’ve had at work hasn’t involved money or egos though, aside from a bit of damage to my own. A long time client, with whom I have shared a really meaningful relationship over our years together, invited me to dinner and to play at his home afterwards – for dessert. Knowing that I was a vegetarian, he went to surprisingly thorough lengths to select a restaurant that was quite upmarket but still offered a wide selection of veggie based options. We spent a leisurely meal together enjoying some of the best ravioli I’ve had in New York, and our banter was lively with filthy sexual entendre. I couldn’t have been more pleased with the entire evening thus far.
It wasn’t until we had made it back to his home that I realized something might be amiss, stomachly-speaking. I have this nasty habit of taking all my clothes off as soon as I get into his apartment, and this night was no exception. He didn’t even have the door shut before my dick was out and pressed against him.
I had spent some time on my knees sucking his cock through his suit trousers, with his back against the door before I pulled him down on top of me and we began going at it in earnest, on the floor of his foyer. There was still a nagging feeling that I might not be able to fully will-away what was quickly become a more audible potential problem. After a series of mood killing rumbles from my tums during our hardcore make out sesh on the floor, my friend finally asked if everything was “ok… down there?” I was instantly mortified and somehow this mortification magnified the ‘situation’ exponentially.
“Actually… no. I think I need to leave…um… NOW,” I said as I pulled him off me and made a desperate scramble for the pieces of the outfit I had so carelessly strewn about the room. I hadn’t dressed myself so quickly since the time I had been caught by a client’s partner returning early from work and been forced to pretend to be a Jehovah’s Witness that had been suspiciously invited in to their obviously Jewish household to tell them the ‘good news.’
After swift goodbyes, I made it out of his apartment and into the elevator, and I was immediately doubled over with panic and pain. That general sense of unbearable dread you may not actually make it to a safe spot before things go entirely awry is something I expect everyone can relate to, if not recall, analy. The stiff, quick walk past the doorman and down the block to the Starbucks will forever be engrained into my memory. As will the even more upsetting stiff run to the NEXT Starbucks, four blocks away, to find a bathroom that wasn’t ‘out of service.’
After a tearful and sweaty 35 minutes in the city’s universal rest area that is every Starbucks bathroom ever, replete with strangers banging the obviously locked door with the obviously flipped ‘Occupied’ sign, to inquire if ‘anybody was in there,’ I managed to clean myself up, tie my hair back, and drag a newly thinner version of myself to the curb to grab a cab home.
My client was a perfect gentlemen about the whole situation, and waited a few hours before texting me to make sure I had “made it home safe.” He made no mention of the stomach clutching condition I had recently been seen in sweating down 5th Avenue.
I understand that it’s just a body, and there will be times when it is unpredictable, but man, when my body is my business, I would really prefer if that sort of thing were, in fact, nobody’s business but my own.