Read by Strangers

by Philip Dean Walker

  Three-Sink Sink

  FIRST, PICK A fake name. Something totally different from your own but one you’ll remember to answer to. Nothing too porn-like. Buck, Ryder, Storm, Dick, Apollo: These are names to stay away from. Choose something simple and boyish. Like Jake or Chip or Hunter. Dylan is popular. The fake name will come in handy later on when you want to pretend it’s not you who’s doing this.

  Use a fake e-mail address (preferably including your new fake name) to post an online ad. Use Craigslist or rentboys.com. Don’t exaggerate, and don’t oversell. You know your best assets. You have a great ass, for example. Take a picture of it, and put it in the ad. Don’t get too specific. Give your vital statistics, then say that everything else is negotiable from there. You don’t want to leave too much of an online footprint. Use phrases such as “looking for generous men” except replace the “s” in “generous” with a dollar sign. Be subtle, but make it clear from the start that you’re looking to have sex for money. This isn’t a dating site. Your willingness to be firm and in control of the situation will serve you well later on. Remember that.

  Try to weed out the obvious flakes and weirdos. Learn to look out for them. Men who don’t use proper capitalization or grammar are probably not for you. Ones who use ALL CAPS like they’re shouting at you from across cyberspace—again, best to avoid them. Stay away from black men sleeping around on their girlfriends. They’re on the down-low and more likely than not have AIDS. Statistics back this up. Men who are willing to send you a picture of themselves are rare but suspect (although not wholly discountable). Your best bet is to find someone with something to lose. For this reason, white married men are cash cows. They’re hungry for sex; they haven’t fucked something tight in a while; they have cash to burn; and they usually come quick that so it’s an in-and-out job.

  Don’t set age limits for yourself. You might have to fuck someone really old or someone really ugly. Good-looking, young men don’t pay to have their dicks sucked by twinks barely out of high school. Expand your list of dos and shorten your list of don’ts. Start an online conversation with someone. Be coy. Ask him what he likes. If he brings up his wife, ask him what she doesn’t let him do and say you’ll let him do it to you. Let him bring up the wife—don’t do it yourself. Talking about wives gets men nervous, then guilty, then scared, then gone. Learn to suss out whether wife or family talk is a turn-on or a conversation killer. Same with the “daddy-son” stuff. Again, follow his lead. If he gives you an opening, take it. Role-play. You’re the son. Your dad wants to fuck you. Go from there. Whole subgenres of porn are devoted to this scenario. If need be, do research.

  When you find a guy who’s interested, learn what the job entails. Stress your adherence to safety. It’s true, and it’ll make your date feel more secure. Except this isn’t Pretty Woman, and you’re not Julia Roberts, so don’t use the word date. You’re a gay escort. Use the word trick.

  Just so there aren’t any surprises, negotiate your fee upfront. Don’t kiss anyone on the lips. Get his address, and find a time that suits both of you. Make sure it doesn’t conflict with anything you have going on in your real life. Write his address on a piece of paper that you can throw away later. Write down the name he gives you: Gene. It could be as fake as the name you’re giving him, but who cares? You’re not getting married. Describe what you’ll be wearing. Tell him you’ll be in jeans and a white T-shirt. A baseball cap is good, if you have one. It’ll make you look boyish. They like boyish. Makes them think they’re fucking that kid they had a crush on back in high school forty fucking years ago. Your job is to be that boy they had a crush on, the one they never could get.

  Walk around to the front of the building. Light a cigarette, and pace up and down the sidewalk, occasionally pulling the slip of paper with the address out from your pocket to make sure you’re in the right place (even though you know you are). This will get out your nerves. Your hands probably will dampen. Wipe them on the sides of your jeans. Stub out your cigarette, and finally enter the building. Don’t look around to see whether people are watching you go in. No one’s watching you go in, and it’ll make you look suspicious. Act like you belong there. The elevator will go straight up to the penthouse, then open directly into the man’s foyer. Oddly, this will remind you of the elevator in the movie Three Men and a Baby, which you saw in the theater multiple times in 1987.

  Immediately you’ll notice that Gene is much older than he claimed to be. He’s not “forty-nine.” He’ll look like he could be in his mid-seventies, older than your own grandparents even. Suddenly you’ll feel panicked, but you’ll already have stepped out of the elevator and accepted his spindly handshake. Resist the urge to run away. Things will move quickly from here on out, yet certain moments will slow down in a dramatic fashion, like what it must have been like when the Titanic first struck that iceberg or how long it took Carter Cooper to hit the sidewalk after he leapt from Gloria Vanderbilt’s fourteenth-floor window.

  Gene’s hands will be cold and oddly smooth, as if he has no fingerprints or palm prints. As if he’s a vampire. When he’s shaking your hand, he’ll place his thumb on top of your hand and move it around in circles, as if he’s already taking some kind of liberties with you, testing the waters. The penthouse will be spectacularly decorated with large oil paintings and immense Oriental vases sitting atop their own gilded pedestals. You’ll see bookshelves behind glass cabinet doors that go up to the ceiling. He’ll tell you he’s a writer, and you’ll see a couple of his books lined up at eye level next to framed pictures of his kids and—judging from how recent the photos are—grandchildren. You’ll begin to regret the fee you’ve already negotiated with him and think you should’ve charged much more than eighty dollars. Remember this for next time: Always aim high.

  As you’re eyeballing his apartment, you’ll notice a woman in a maid’s costume. Don’t ask Gene who she is. She’s obviously the maid. She won’t speak much English, so don’t speak to her. She’ll be on her way out. She’s paid well to not speak of things like you. Issues Mr. Gene has like you. When she catches your eye from behind the glass-paned French doors that separate the living room from the dining room, ignore the dumb, glazed look she casts your way. Look at her like you’re better than her. You are.

  He’ll chat with you a little. Stick to your story. Don’t tell him anything about you that’s true. Use your fake name. Remember to answer to it. If he asks you if it’s fake, tell him it’s your real name. He’ll know you’re lying, but he won’t press you. He’ll ask you to take off your clothes in front of him. Remove them slowly. Tease him a little; draw this part out. Get him excited. He’s old, so the idea of a nineteen-year-old undressing himself will be enough to get him going. His dick will start to stiffen, and you’ll see its tumescent outline against his cream slacks. Once you’re down to your underwear, bend over so your bubble-butt ass wags in his face. Wear briefs; they’ll make you look more boyish. He’ll stick a couple of those crypt-keeper fingers underneath the elastic band of your underwear. Don’t shudder when you feel his cold skin press against yours. Act like you like it, like it’s turning you on. Moan a little. Let him pull your underwear down to your ankles. He’ll finger you. His fingernails will be long and might scratch you inside. Again, act like you think it’s hot. Resist the desire to kick him in the face when he’s down there worshiping your tight asshole.

  Gene won’t be able to get hard enough to fuck you. He’s old.

  You’ll feel high as you walk to your car with that cash in your pocket. Take it out and smell it. Put it in your back pocket and squirm on top of it while you’re driving home. Pretend you’re Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal. Take the cash out when you get to your place. Call your dealer and tell him you want a bag of his best crystal. Smoke it, and then don’t leave your house for a couple days. When you need another bag, hit the Net again.

  YOUR NEXT TRICK will be in town on business. He’ll say you can come to his hotel. It’s a nice hotel, much nicer than any you’v
e ever been in or stayed at. He’ll tell you to wear khakis and a Polo shirt and to meet him in the lobby at seven o’clock. You don’t even own a Polo shirt. You go to Ghetto Vintage downtown on U Street and find a used red Lacoste shirt. It has a hole in the bottom, but you can cover it up when you tuck it in. The Jamaican girl with the dreadlocks will charge you twenty dollars for it. “It’s used. Can’t you sell this to me for five bucks?” you’ll ask. She won’t even bother with your negotiating. “It’s vintage, not used,” she’ll say. Smile on your way out. Look at her pathetic retail job and laugh to yourself.

  You’ll stroll into the hotel lobby and pick a spot on a pink-and-turquoise-striped satin sofa. This place will be fancy as shit. Hold your legs together, proper-like. Or cross one nonchalantly so the ankle of one leg rests on the knee of the other. This is the scene where Julia Roberts goes to the horse races in the brown polka-dot dress—your desperate attempt at fitting in. A man in a blue blazer with gold cufflinks will come off the elevator and beeline toward you. “Dylan?” he’ll ask. He’ll have an accent. Texas? “Yep, that’s me,” you’ll answer. “Shall we, sir?” he’ll ask. Oklahoma? You still can’t place it. Don’t ask him where he’s from. Follow him toward the elevator. Your tan loafers will give your heel a blister. The last time you wore them was to your high school graduation two years ago, and they hurt even then. You graduated a year early. Your teachers told your parents you were too smart. You were bored there.

  You’ll stand side by side in the elevator, but you’ll be able to see him in the mirrored walls. He’ll be handsome, early to mid-forties, with black wavy hair. His cologne will smell like one of your friend’s dads.

  When you get off on his floor, travel down the hall with him to his suite. Look on the wall where it says, ROOMS 901–925 ←, ROOMS 926–950 →. Think of movies set in hotels—The Shining, for instance. Think of all the different people who’ve had sex in the room you’re about to enter. And other people who might have died there or been killed there. Or raped. The man will open the door and push it open for you to follow through it, as if he’s holding open a carriage door. Suddenly you’ll feel special and kind of rich. Almost immediately you’ll realize this is the gold standard of tricks. The best they ever get. Quickly formulate a plan to give this man the best fuck of his life to ensure his calling you every time he’s back in the city.

  He’ll ask you to undress in the bathroom and come out in the robe that’s hanging on the door. The bathroom is about the size of your apartment. You’ll see small samples of hair and skin-care products in wire-mesh dishes wrapped in cellophane and tied with hunter-green and white ribbons, which you’ll realize, by the logo emblazoned across your robe, must be the official colors of the hotel. Slip off your loafers and incongruous tube socks and the stiff khakis you got from the dry cleaners and the Lacoste shirt with the hole. Leave them in a heap on the floor under the three-sink sink like sloughed-off skins. Take off your white briefs and stand naked in front of the mirror. You just got a haircut, short and kind of butch. It makes you look significantly younger than you already are. Reach in the pocket of your khakis for a quick bump. Take it out and hold that little one-hitter up to your nostril. See yourself in the mirror again, and put the bumper back in your pocket without taking a hit. Slip into the robe and go out to meet him.

  He’ll be in a robe too. His chest will be barrel-like and will stretch across the opening of his robe like Superman. Like it’s bursting to get out. He’ll have a clipped chest with small flecks of white swirling around like Van Gogh stars, and he’ll open his arms up and take you in them. “I just want to hold ya for a minute before we go. That okay?” “Of course,” you’ll answer. He won’t be wearing a wedding ring, but you’ll be sure he must have taken it off beforehand out of respect for the wife he most surely still loves and the kids he most definitely has (he just exudes “dad at a football game”). He’ll scoop you up in his strong arms and lay you down on the eight-hundred-thread-count sheets (you’ll have read that on a fact card in the bathroom). He’ll open your robe and rub your smooth chest with his large, rough hands. He’s a workingman turned businessman. You can tell from the brawny shoulders that don’t ever quite fit in the suit jackets he wears, his ropey forearms that seem thick and stocky from his having baled hay, his hard, callused hands. You’ll realize you’re kind of falling in love with this man, which will jolt you back to the business you have before you. You’ll grab hold of his cock and knead it through his robe. Watch him throw his head back. Let him enjoy your warm hands, getting it ready for your mouth, then your ass. He’ll take off his robe and jump on top of you, seemingly brought to life by the switch of the knob that is his dick. Break your rule and kiss him on the mouth, deeply. See if that’s okay with him, and when he reciprocates, let his tongue swim inside you, peeking through new depths, into this new person. This Dylan person you’ve created. Watch him slip a Magnum on his thick cock, spread open your legs, and plunge deep inside you. Look at his eyes; watch how they don’t avert from yours, like he’s pretending he’s someone else too.

  Take a shower, and get back into your clothes. Feel the bumper in your back pocket and congratulate yourself for being sober for that experience. When you reenter the room, he’ll be dressed and putting on wool socks and a new shirt. There’ll be a wad of bills on the table next to the door. Pick it up, and shove it into your back pocket. Meet his eyes and shake his proffered hand. “Thanks, bud,” he’ll say. Leave his suite and walk out into the hallway. Note the pattern on the carpet and the crown molding where the walls meet the ceiling. In the elevator, take out the wad and see that he’s paid you two hundred fifty dollars, a hundred more than you agreed upon. Walk out of the elevator, and head to the revolving doors that spill you out into the street. Accept the greeting of the doorman who thinks you’re staying in the hotel. Turn around and smile at him, backing up as you walk away—like if you turn your back on it, you might forget it could ever happen this way.

  PUT UP THE same ad, but sign it, “Love, Tina.” When you hook a guy, tell him you’ll take cash or crystal, whatever he’s got. When you show up in the Perkins parking lot, walk over to the guy’s car. He’ll be parked in a dark blue Honda coupe near the green dumpster where the waitresses come out to smoke. Tell him you know a place where you can go. It’ll be dark, so you won’t be able to tell how old he is, but it won’t matter. Get in the front seat. If he rubs you through your jeans, tell him to stop. He has to show the cash or the drugs, or this doesn’t go any further. He’ll pull out a plastic bag from the pocket of his jean jacket and ask if you want a taste. You’ll say no, that’s cool, and tell him to turn right at the road before the high school. Make him drive back to the end of the park road where there’s a playground with a log cabin nearby. Tell him to park his car a little uphill, and then have him follow you into the cabin.

  Walk through the door and lead him inside. Tell him you’ll suck his dick and let him fuck you. He’ll pull his pants down, and his dick will be thick and short, like a stump. Get your mouth around it. Work the thing. You’ll be high in ten minutes, and then you won’t care about this asshole. You’ll still be a little high from this morning, but it’s fine. Just make sure to keep your eyes on the goal here. For a minute, you’ll remember having played in this little cabin as a child. Your baby-sitter took you here and played Madonna mixes on her boom box and let you organize her stickers—oilies and scratch-and-sniff. She gave you a scratch-and-sniff with an animated pizza man, and you thought the scent had worn off, so you painted it with tomato sauce to capture the smell again, but it didn’t work.