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Authors: Jim Provenzano
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visiting the Gaeity, overtipping the strippers, and a few times even renting an hour with a muscled stud, who usually joked about just who should be paying.
It wasn’t their bodies, but the display that excited him, the sort of class reversal.
To others, stripping may have been the lowest job above prostitution. But for Brian, the Latino muscle boys swinging their stiff cocks and dancing so fine, (and paying more attention, since he was usually the only patron under fifty), were profoundly honest in selling themselves, sometimes dating him for free. For that, Brian adored them, even envied them.
His roommate at the time remained oblivious to his carnal commerce and subsequent relief mechanisms.
Brian avoided thinking about why he kept taking escort jobs. Despite his good looks, he had something to prove, that if a man would pay money for him, he must be attractive. Keeping a day job that paid half as much seemed stupid. He spent a lot of time doing a lot of nothing, save working out at the gym, going to clubs and watching TV.
Sometimes, however, the work was fun. As he became more experienced, once in a while Tony would call for “a special act.” He’d ask Brian to bring one of several costumes loaned to him. After arriving at the client’s hotel room with his duffel bag, followed by a change in the bathroom, out would pop Chip the tight end, complete with shoulder pads, helmet and black smudges under each cheek. Then it was Chip the highway patrolman, ready for Hide the Nightstick. The rough stuff turned him off, and anything that left marks was out, as Tony had no employee health care benefits.
But Brian’s few trips to agents’ offices furthered his growing conviction that this might be his only paying gig. The walls of glossy head shots had almost leered at him, dozens of moussed haircuts, glistening eyes, airbrushed skin and white gleaming teeth, smiling, perpetually smiling. Like me. Please, please like me.
The satisfied sighs of relief for his private performances left clients more than liking him.
But it was a matter of health that drove the young beauty away from private prostitution. A rather paunchy chain-smoking gentleman with a tawdry Hell’s kitchen flat and a taste for Smirnoff and poppers took Brian for all he could get.
After plying the boy with a drink (“Let’s just sit a while and get to know each other”), the paunchy man promised an extra hundred, and requested that Chip lie on his stomach and watch the television while getting fucked and moaning, “Stop it, Daddy! Stop it!”
Why not, Brian figured. The guy wasn’t too big, and he hadn’t had it in the backside in a while. He wouldn’t even have to look at the guy.
“Just put a rubber on.” Brian lay down, admiring the alcohol-induced blurred image of Joan Collins sporting a red lame gown on Dynasty .
“Ya got any porn?”
As he heard the familiar snap of latex behind him, he peered over his shoulder as the man prepared to mount him, rubber-sheathed joint aiming downward for the valley between his butt cheeks.
What Brian didn’t know, as he winced from the initial pain, was that the condom was a few years old, pulled from the dank recesses of the gent’s bathroom cabinet. Midway through a rather clumsy fucking, the rubber tore a large hole and the man’s seed dispersed into Brian’s chute. Two days later Brian got a cold, flu and a nasty case of chlamydia, cousin of the clap, plus a bad case of AIDS paranoia.
The bill for penicillin shots and pills spanked Brian back to reality. The day he was healthy enough, he visited Tony one last time to cash in three signed credit card slips and return several uniforms and props, including a football, whip, chains, leather harnesses, handcuffs and a red ostrich feather boa.
The road back to legitimate employment was a difficult one. A test at a midtown temp agency revealed that his typing speed was fourteen words a minute, and his computer skills limited to
It wasn’t their bodies, but the display that excited him, the sort of class reversal.
To others, stripping may have been the lowest job above prostitution. But for Brian, the Latino muscle boys swinging their stiff cocks and dancing so fine, (and paying more attention, since he was usually the only patron under fifty), were profoundly honest in selling themselves, sometimes dating him for free. For that, Brian adored them, even envied them.
His roommate at the time remained oblivious to his carnal commerce and subsequent relief mechanisms.
Brian avoided thinking about why he kept taking escort jobs. Despite his good looks, he had something to prove, that if a man would pay money for him, he must be attractive. Keeping a day job that paid half as much seemed stupid. He spent a lot of time doing a lot of nothing, save working out at the gym, going to clubs and watching TV.
Sometimes, however, the work was fun. As he became more experienced, once in a while Tony would call for “a special act.” He’d ask Brian to bring one of several costumes loaned to him. After arriving at the client’s hotel room with his duffel bag, followed by a change in the bathroom, out would pop Chip the tight end, complete with shoulder pads, helmet and black smudges under each cheek. Then it was Chip the highway patrolman, ready for Hide the Nightstick. The rough stuff turned him off, and anything that left marks was out, as Tony had no employee health care benefits.
But Brian’s few trips to agents’ offices furthered his growing conviction that this might be his only paying gig. The walls of glossy head shots had almost leered at him, dozens of moussed haircuts, glistening eyes, airbrushed skin and white gleaming teeth, smiling, perpetually smiling. Like me. Please, please like me.
The satisfied sighs of relief for his private performances left clients more than liking him.
But it was a matter of health that drove the young beauty away from private prostitution. A rather paunchy chain-smoking gentleman with a tawdry Hell’s kitchen flat and a taste for Smirnoff and poppers took Brian for all he could get.
After plying the boy with a drink (“Let’s just sit a while and get to know each other”), the paunchy man promised an extra hundred, and requested that Chip lie on his stomach and watch the television while getting fucked and moaning, “Stop it, Daddy! Stop it!”
Why not, Brian figured. The guy wasn’t too big, and he hadn’t had it in the backside in a while. He wouldn’t even have to look at the guy.
“Just put a rubber on.” Brian lay down, admiring the alcohol-induced blurred image of Joan Collins sporting a red lame gown on Dynasty .
“Ya got any porn?”
As he heard the familiar snap of latex behind him, he peered over his shoulder as the man prepared to mount him, rubber-sheathed joint aiming downward for the valley between his butt cheeks.
What Brian didn’t know, as he winced from the initial pain, was that the condom was a few years old, pulled from the dank recesses of the gent’s bathroom cabinet. Midway through a rather clumsy fucking, the rubber tore a large hole and the man’s seed dispersed into Brian’s chute. Two days later Brian got a cold, flu and a nasty case of chlamydia, cousin of the clap, plus a bad case of AIDS paranoia.
The bill for penicillin shots and pills spanked Brian back to reality. The day he was healthy enough, he visited Tony one last time to cash in three signed credit card slips and return several uniforms and props, including a football, whip, chains, leather harnesses, handcuffs and a red ostrich feather boa.
The road back to legitimate employment was a difficult one. A test at a midtown temp agency revealed that his typing speed was fourteen words a minute, and his computer skills limited to
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