Excited, curious, and a little envious at times: I’ve had a fascination with escorts ever since Mom told me the story of the “hooker with the heart of gold” when I was little. And then there was the the visit to Miami, where we encountered a seven-foot tranny prostitute. She was dressed in gold lamé and hitchhiking, or so I thought. I was ten or so at the time. Then there was American Gigolo, which I saw one sleepless night on HBO. When Gere throws all of those new shirts on the bed, laying out his outfits, I mentally replaced my subscription to Boy’s Life with one to GQ.
When my grandparents died and my Mom moved to Virginia, I visited Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, with an eye to relocating there. I was 25. I checked into my first gay bed and breakfast. The owner offered to arrange a “really, really good massage.” I had an idea of what he was talking about, and felt the visceral rush of exhilaration when I replied, “Sure, why not?” (Thanks, Grandma.)
Alexander was big, hairy, and Greek. He was definitely over 40. Prior to moving to Los Angeles, terms like Daddy and muscle bear weren’t in my vernacular, but Alex was both, and a fantastic masseur with big strong hands. I’ve never been into Daddies, but one thing was certain, I felt safe and cared for. What difference did it make that he was walking around the massage table completely naked, with a cock that looked like a foot of garden hose? It truly was the massage I was after, although I didn’t mind the rest.
Weeks later, I moved to Ft. Lauderdale and my fascination intensified as I thought I’d walk a while in a hustler’s shoes. I began frequenting a local gay dive, The Everglades Bar, on Dixie Highway, staggering distance from my apartment. I soon grew bold enough to take off my white tank top and tuck it into the back of my shorts, on the walk home. I’d teeter along the shoulder of the road, looking back frequently, but always making it home safely without incident or income. It’s likely for the best: with my luck, my first trick would have been a cop.
So here I am at 41, and my obsession continues. This week I had the excellent fortune to stumble upon a blog written by a 47 year-old escort. First off, you have to hand it to a guy pushing fifty who holds his own in a field that is as much about youth as it is about sex. It’s well written with as much style, craft, and heat as the encounters he documents there. Check him out.
