March 19, 2015

Being a male prostitute is nowhere close to being a mundane job. Although the process of meeting clients online and scheduling an appointment is often the same, the encounters themselves play out differently every time. I’ve introduced myself as Trevor to all of them while most of them gave me their real first names (or at least that’s what I think), but avoided giving away their surnames.

What I mainly enjoyed was discovering other people’s bodies, trying to guess what they liked done to them which isn’t always easy to figure out, mainly because I usually don’t have much of an idea of who my clients are and what they enjoy prior to our arrangement. Most of them can be upfront and verbal about what they want while others keep quiet because they’re either too shy or embarrassed to reveal their fetishes or what they enjoy sexually. However, as I became a better observer I’ve noticed that the trick is to notice the things they do to you and reciprocate since most of them assume others enjoy what they themselves enjoy. My sexual endeavors were mostly harmless and went by fast. There were rarely any complications. Even with unpleasant people, I’ve managed to keep things strictly sexual, and avoided investing personal feelings or opinions; my goal was to do my job as well as I could, get my money and leave. However, some encounters have been disagreeable.

The first one was when I met a guy named Peter who turned out to be a seventeen year-old boy. He had sent me fake photos and pretended he was an older businessman with a big bank account. I was very annoyed by the fact he wasted my time, and the funny part was that he still tried to persuade me into having sex with him even after I clearly expressed my repulsiveness. He offered me half the money he claimed to have, but I knew better than to engage myself in anything sexual with a minor.

After that, I met Marc, a middle-aged man who lived alone in a cul-de-sac. He was drunk and liked primal sex that included lots of grabbing, flipping and spitting. We were interrupted by a loud noise halfway into our hardcore fuck. He got up and opened the door, and we both stepped out to a trail of receipts and credit cards that belonged to me, all scattered everywhere around the living room. I looked around for my wallet and found it in his dog’s bed. It was heavily chewed on which infuriated me; it belonged to grandpa Jürgen and he had given it to me on my eighteenth birthday, so it held a sentimental value, something very few people understood. I tried not to snap or behave inappropriately, but I didn’t hesitate to express my tremendous distress to the situation which made him feel bad, not to mention a little bit awkward that he suggested to offer me an extra hundred dollars to replace it which I knew wasn’t possible in this case. I think I’m just going to keep on carrying it. Somehow, the rip on one of the slide pockets and the minor scratches on the inside seem to have added more character to it; or maybe I’m just trying to look at the bright side of things. If I end up feeling differently, I’ll take it to a cobbler and see if it can be fixed.

The worst and most recent experience so far is when I regrettably got infected with an STD which disallowed me to have any kind of sexual contact with anyone, whether it was oral, anal, or even just body-to-body contact.

I was in class that day when I received a message from a client named Josh, who’s been desperately trying to work out his schedule around mine as well as his husband’s, so we could meet up and fuck, asking me whether or not I was feeling spontaneous and able to come by his house. He didn’t live far, and I was free that evening, so I accepted. However, since my teacher had come in late, she extended her class by an hour to catch up on the lost time, and so I ended up rushing crazily to his house. I made sure to let him know beforehand and he was very understanding.

Although rich, Josh had an awfully messy house. Absolutely nothing was in place, and the way his expensive, high-end furniture was scattered made the whole house look cheap. We went upstairs to his bedroom where he clutched me by the shoulders and pushed me into his bed. He took off my shoes and I unzipped my pants and pulled them down. He grabbed them and threw them across the space. He was really horny and out of control. He got on top of me and started kissing me all over, continuously telling me how hot I was, totally milking it with his interminable amount of tacky compliments, which almost put me off. After kissing and briefly engaging in foreplay, he turned around and reached for the nightstand. He took out a bottle of lube and a condom, and handed them to me. I put it on, lubricated my cock and spread his legs. He pulled his ass up, which I slowly fingered with one finger, then two, before I fully and deeply penetrated him. He moaned loudly, and I stopped. Then he asked me to keep going, and I obliged. A minute into the intercourse, the condom broke, and I immediately pulled out. The sound it made when it snapped sounded like a struck to the head. Like some sort of a warning I had to stop. I pulled out and realized it was because the lubricant was oil-based. For some reason, I paused and furtively stared at it, despondent and high-strung, like it was a big deal. And it was, but I wasn’t sure why at that point.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve succeeded in developing a strong intuitive sense; an extrasensory perception that I often heavily relied on and fully trusted. Walking outside Josh’s house, I could tell something had penetrated my body; some sort of parasite. And I was right. The next day, I woke up to a weird, ticklish sensation around the tip of my penis, and I felt an intense and painful sensation while urinating, which confirmed that my gut feeling was accurate. Something wasn’t right, and I had to fix whatever it was that was wrong with me. Azithromycin seemed to be the solution to my problem, but pharmacies require a prescription from a doctor in order to hand out the antibiotic. I tried to find a way to get it online, but with no success. I didn’t want to see a doctor, nor go to the emergency room because I knew my condition wasn’t that serious, and that the solution to it was simple. I texted Ryan and he suggested I go to the Iowa City Youth Center, where free help for anyone under the age of twenty-five is provided on a walk-in basis.

I went to the clinic the day after and the nurse gave me a shot and two pills of Azithromycin that I took on the spot. I had to avoid any kind of sexual relation for a guaranteed recovery, and I complied. However, the symptoms returned a week later which came to the nurse as a shock, citing that everyone usually healed the first time. The second treatment consisted of taking fourteen pills of Zithromax for a week, and she assured me that its results were highly effective. She was right since it did the trick, but I resented the idea of adding fourteen more days of sexual avoidance. I guess I’m finally paying the price for prioritizing temporary sexual gratification over my permanent well-being.

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