Jennifer didn’t like getting oral which was fine by me. You should see some of the things women expected me to go down on—it was hard not to gag sometimes.
Jennifer mostly wanted missionary sex with a bit of dirty talk thrown in.
Easy.
Eloise approved of my organizational skills and had insisted that all the escorts who worked for her kept good records. Password protected. Naturally.
After the first six months, she’d gotten me a lot of foreign clients and overseas jobs. It helped that I could speak three languages. Thanks, Dad.
Despite her name, Michelle was South African, and as hardnosed as they came. It was always business with her. I never found out what she did for a living, but she was continually discussing ‘business’ and having ‘meetings’ on her yacht. I was supposed to make myself scarce when that happened. Fine by me—the men she had her meetings with were all accompanied by armed bodyguards.
She made sure I knew my place in the grand scheme of things. She wasn’t unpleasant about it, but I knew I was just one of her staff, paid to make her life as comfortable as possible. I wondered why she didn’t employ a guy full time, but apparently she enjoyed variety. I saw her three or four times a year, when her schedule allowed. I’d stay with her, usually on her yacht, for a few days. She was cold, glacial, impossible to know. Even though she was attractive, it was harder work than you might think.
Sheena liked to be punished. Not just spanked but the whole role play thing. It took every ounce of my acting skills to keep a straight face while she dressed up as a schoolgirl and had to be punished for not doing her homework on time.
But once we’d done with the sex, she was quirky and fun to talk to. She’d hire me for a whole weekend while she went to her business meetings, so I got to spend some time in the city. I persuaded her to come to the Met with me once. It wasn’t really her thing, but it was cool that she was prepared to do something I was interested in. I came close to being myself with her, and we developed a loose friendship that lasted several years.
Besides, she had the most beautiful voice, and I could listen to that soft Scottish accent for hours. I mean, I’ve heard the words, “Fuck me now” in every accent you can imagine, but it always sounded special when she said it. Weird.
Although my longer contracts were overseas, I took some local work, too.
You know Sian. Of course you do. Who could forget her?
Sian was one client I was thinking about crossing off of my list. Professional pride decreed that I could fuck anything, but there was something about her that had started to chip through my armor—and not in a good way. She enjoyed needling me, and I was getting tired of it. Not tired enough to turn down the five hundred dollar tip she usually gave me, but seriously considering it.
I tapped the keyboard, trying to decide what else to put about my newest client—Belinda. Nothing came to mind. She wasn’t what I’d call interesting or even particularly memorable.
Yeah, sex can be boring and it was always work—always making the client feel special. Reaching a climax meant I got something out of it. And most of my clients wanted to see that happen. I guess it made it feel more personal—less of a transaction. Every now and then, one of them wanted to leave me hard, as a demonstration of their power. Whatever. I still got paid.
It was tedious always having to be upbeat, especially when I’d rather have stayed in bed—alone.
I tried again to think of something else to say about Belinda, but I couldn’t. I closed the laptop and headed for the shower.
I stood for a long time, letting the hot water pour over me. Some nights I felt like I could never get clean again.
In an indirect way, my college roommate Carl was the reason I’d got started in escort work. Very indirectly, but all evidence is pertinent when building a case, right?
I grew up in a small town in Newfoundland. St. John’s was a four-hour drive away, and it was pretty rural where we were, not much more than scarred fields and endless sky. Dad was a lot older than my mum and he traveled for his work, so most of the time it was just the two of us, which wasn’t great for her or me.
Dad was from Sweden, somewhere near Malmö, I think—anyway, that’s where I got my name, blond hair and blue eyes. Mum has red hair and hazel eyes—I get my temper from her.
Anyway, I was close to my dad, and when he was home, we hung out a lot, doing guy stuff, playing hockey. He taught me how to check—you know, take the puck from the other team during play. He died when I was ten.
I don’t think my mum was cut out to be a parent. I think if she hadn’t had a kid, she’d have just taken off. She didn’t like living in a small town and always said she was meant for more. I think she blamed me for being born. After Dad died, there was a procession of ‘uncles’. Some were okay but mostly having a kid around upset their plans to screw my mum all hours of the day. Some didn’t care and I’d have to listen to the sounds they made while I did my homework. Some would be around a few weeks, others several months. But none stayed longer. Maybe she was just lonely. She never mentioned my dad.
I guess I was pretty wild when I was a teenager—as much as you can be in a small town, 200 miles and a lifetime away from the city. I got into trouble—just the usual sort of stuff—fighting, drinking, smoking weed. I was on the hockey team at high school and that gave me some form of discipline and stopped me from dropping out or fucking up my education too badly.
There were girls, as well, and I didn’t have any problem getting action when I wanted it—usually with one of the puck bunnies who hung around us. Truth is, I was kind of a player. But it was just a mask—part of the whole being a jock vibe that I had going. I was one of the popular crowd, but a loner, too.
I know that sounds like a contradiction but you’ve seen for yourself that I’m two people. I’m not trying to bullshit you or make excuses—I just want to explain.
I didn’t want to get close to anyone, because the people you love leave you.
Mum and I used to fight a lot, so when I had the chance to go far away for school, I took it. I’d told my friends that I was doing a degree in Business Administration, but I’d really got a place to study Fine Art. I was kind of embarrassed by that—or thought they wouldn’t understand—so I kept it private. Like I said, I wore a mask.
I was nearly 18 years old, arriving at UCLA fresh off of the bus, and finding that the amount of money I had in small town Canada didn’t cut it in Los Angeles. I wanted to be here: the sky was bluer, the light sharper, and I felt like I could breathe, but my student-work visa issues hadn’t been resolved. I couldn’t find a job on campus and I wasn’t allowed to work anywhere else, so I wasn’t able to make money straightaway. I had a hockey scholarship that paid tuition, but not room and board or anything to live on. I refused to get in debt—because then I’d have to ask Mum to sign my student loan forms, which so far she’d given me a hard time about. I’d worked part-time since my sophomore year, and she was always the one borrowing money from me—and never paid it back. So me getting a student loan wasn’t something that interested her—not when she wasn’t going to see any of the money. There was a strong possibility that I’d have to forge her signature.
I’d left home and had no plans of going back. Ever. So I didn’t have anything other than a few hundred dollars in savings to live on. Yeah, I was broke, and we hadn’t even made it to Thanksgiving of my first semester.
Ironically, Carl really was studying Business Administration. He thought I chose to study Art because of the high ratio of girls to guys in my classes. Yeah, he really was that shallow, but we got along okay.
I was finishing a paper on Albrecht Dürer, specifically the way he portrayed light and shade, when Carl came crashing into our dorm room.
“Drop your linen and start your grinning! My man, I have the solution to our cash flow problems!”
Carl’s cash flow problem would have been solved by not partying seven nights a week. And it was because of him that my paper
was in danger of being late. Even though we’d been out five nights this week, he’d decided that I wasn’t a party animal, not realizing that it was because I couldn’t match his drinking dollar for dollar. He never changed from his first opinion of me, which was pretty freakin’ funny.
“Yeah, well the solution to my problem is you shutting the fuck up,” I said, trying to focus on my laptop even as my head throbbed dully.
Carl slammed the lid shut, making the machine’s elderly joints protest. My flash of anger had him backing up, his palms held out in apology.
“Hallen, you miserable Canuck! Just listen for a minute!”
I knew he wasn’t going to let this go quietly. It would be easier and quicker just to let him say what he had to say.
“Fine. What?”
He brandished the LA Times in front of me. One of the small personal ads had been ringed in red pen. I read it, my eyes widening.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m telling you, dude! It’s easy money. Come on—we’ve got nothing to lose.”
I read the ad again.
I stared at him in disbelief.
“You want to be in a porn movie?”
“Hallen, come on, man! I like pussy and you fuckin’ love it. I’ve seen the way women are with you—fuckin’ Christmas and New Years all rolled into one. Jeez, it wouldn’t even be like work. All we have to do is get up for some horny girls … freakin’ porn actresses, for fuck’s sake and we get paid!”
“And it’s going to be filmed! Fuck, man, we could find ourselves all over the damn internet.”
I think he considered my objections for almost two seconds.
“Look, at least let’s go see. If we don’t like it or the money isn’t good enough, we walk away. Could be the easiest cash we’ve ever made. Plus, ya know, sex!”
We argued it back and forth some more, but Carl wasn’t giving up. If the guy ever went into politics, he’d be lethal.
But I won’t lie—the chance of earning some off-the-record money was a huge incentive. I’d stuck my dick in worse places.
Which was why, on a warm afternoon, the sidewalk glittering with promise in the sunshine, we ended up standing outside an ugly warehouse building in Silver Lake that looked like it should be condemned. Weeds grew in the parking lot and the lifeless windows were crusted with decades of dirt.
Carl pulled out a cigarette and sucked on it nervously. Now we were here, he was a lot less confident.
“Come on, man, let’s go get a beer instead,” I said, and Carl nodded his agreement. But then the door opened and a woman with a tiny waist and the most enormous tits I’d ever seen strolled out.
“You boys here for the audition?” she asked, sweeping her eyes across Carl, then turning on me, raking up and down my body as if she had x-ray vision. “Come on in.”
Carl stubbed out his cigarette and reluctantly followed her up the stairs.
I hesitated, wondering for the first time if I’d be able to get it up in front of an audience. I heard Carl’s desperate voice.
“Hallen, buddy? You with me?”
Shaking my head, I pulled the door shut behind me and tried to feel my way through the gloom.
“I’m Titania,” said the woman, ignoring Carl’s snigger. “I need you to fill out these forms.”
As my eyes adjusted to the dingy interior, I saw three heavily made-up women eyeing us with a bored air.
“Cute,” one of them said, taking no trouble to lower her voice. “I’ll do him. And his friend.”
I glanced over at Carl, but his eyes had already glazed over.
I scanned through the form, my eyebrows getting higher and higher with each line that I read.
“Oh, man, I’m outta here!” I said, throwing down the form.
“Yeah,” said Carl, rubbing his neck, “I don’t know.”
“Problem, boys?” said Titania.
She’d positioned herself by the door, cutting off our retreat.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry, but I don’t think…”
She laid her hand on my chest. “Virgin?”
“Um, no!”
She chuckled. “I meant—is this the first time you’ve come to a movie studio?”
I looked around the dirty, depressing warehouse. It didn’t look much like a place where they made movies—except for the bank of large industrial lights, and black camera on a tripod.
“Oh. Well, yeah.”
“Look, I tell you what, kid. We’ll start you off easy. You’re cute and I think you’ll look good on film. How about I just get one of our girls to suck you off? Fifty bucks. Come on, what have you got to lose?”
She hooked her arm through mine and steered me further inside. I shot a panicked look at Carl, but he was frozen, a look of fear on his face.
“Take your clothes off over there, honey,” Titania purred, her long nails digging into my bicep a warning. “Can you get yourself hard or do you need some help?”
She must have sensed I was about to bolt because she snapped her fingers at one of the bored-looking women.
“Kitty-Marie, it’s his first time. Can you get him up for me, sweetie?”
A woman with brown hair glanced over. She looked about five or six years older than me, although with all the make-up she was wearing, it was difficult to be certain.
“Sure, Titania,” said the brunette, stifling a yawn. “Am I doing him?”
“No, we’ll get Pepper to suck him off. You can do the other guy.”
“He just left.”
What?
It was true—Carl had taken his chance and left me with Dracula’s horny brides.
“Damn it. Quinn really digs the newbies.”
The girl called Kitty-Marie started unbuttoning my shirt. “No tats? Huh, pity. Still, you got a real mountain fresh vibe going on, honey.”
My brain woke up and I made a feeble move toward the door, but then she palmed my dick and looked back at Titania.
“Definitely got potential.”
Despite the fucked up situation, I couldn’t help getting hard. I was 18 after all.
Kitty-Marie winked then led me over to a recliner in front of the cameras and someone snapped on the lights.
“Keep the camera above the ankles,” said a man’s voice. “I don’t want sock marks.”
I froze, totally uncool with the idea of a guy watching, but Kitty-Marie rubbed my cock and dragged her nails down my back as she tugged off my shirt.
Ten minutes later, I was lying naked on the recliner with the redhead called Pepper giving me the most amazing blowjob of my entire young life. That girl could suck like a Hoover, and she didn’t stop. Her hot lips rode my cock with practiced ease. She really knew how to make it last, bringing me to the brink and back three or four times. I had to stop myself from pushing down on her shoulders or grabbing her hair; instead I gripped the recliner and hung on.
It was just as well Pepper knew what she was doing, because I was no help to her whatsoever and would have lost it within the first 20 seconds.
A few minutes later, she was wiping my cum off of her tits and examining her nail polish for chips. I was practically passed out, trying to remember how my lungs worked.
The hot spotlights were switched off, and Titania walked over, completely ignoring the fact I was buck naked, then passed me five bills.
“Nice equipment, kid. Come back next week and we can use you in a penetrative sex scene. Pay’s $250.”
I staggered over to my clothes, and it wasn’t until I hit the sidewalk that I realized I’d left my boxers behind. They could keep them. Call it a souvenir.
Carl was waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“Where the fuck did you go, pussy?” I sniggered, waving my cash at him.
“Whoa, dude! You really did it?”
“Sure,” I replied, with a certain amount of swagger in my voice, now I was free of the God-awful place. “Got the dough to show for it.”
We celebrated by buying a bottle of
tequila at a liquor store on Vine Street where no one cared that neither of us had ID or looked 21. Then we ordered take-out pizza. Big time spenders.
By the weekend, and thanks to Carl’s exaggeration, my rep at school grew overnight. According to Carl, we’d been shanghaied on the street and dragged off to commit untold debauchery with a harem of eager women. But because of his dramatization, most of the guys laughed it off and none of the girls believed him, although I did see several of them giving me curious, calculating looks, which I totally dug. But one of them, Katie, a girl I’d been getting pretty friendly with, seemed disgusted, and I felt embarrassed and irritated by her scornful expression.
As far as Carl was concerned, that was the end of ‘our’ porn career. What I didn’t tell him was that I went back the next week. I’d been promised $250 and I needed the cash. It hadn’t helped that Carl considered my hard earned fifty bucks as communal property. And damn, I was definitely hard when I’d earned it.
But if I’m honest, it wasn’t only about the money. Sex just didn’t mean much to me. Maybe it was because I’d grown up hearing Mum get it on with so many guys over the years, and girls in high school had been in good supply. I don’t know, maybe I had something to prove, like showing nothing could touch me.
Which was why, a week later, I stood outside the shabby building wondering if I could really do it. My heart was racing and sweat was pooling under my arms and trickling down my back. I kept telling myself that $250 would buy me food until the end of the next month—after that I was praying that my student work visa would come through.
At Your Beck & Call Page 3
