by Blue Blake
Once home, I took a shower and searched through my meager wardrobe for something that would be suitable to wear to a fancy hotel. I had nothing!!! By this time I had stopped wearing all the new Romantic/Punk outfits I used to run around in and all I had were T-shirts and jeans.
I slung on a T-shirt and clean pair of jeans and prayed the security guards wouldn’t think I looked like a rent boy at the hotel. I jumped in a cab and ten minutes later stepped out at the Savoy Hotel. My heart was beating a mile a minute. What if the guy didn’t like me and sent me away and Andy never gave me a booking again and I had to go back to massaging hippos at the Tiger? All these thoughts flooded my head as I made my way to the suite on the 16th floor. I’d had no problem with the hotel security. I just swanned in like I belonged there.
I stood nervously at the client’s door and knocked. Someone in the room could be heard approaching the door and I could tell he was now looking at me through the peephole. The door opened and there stood one of the most gorgeous Arabs I had ever seen in my life.
“I think I might be at the wrong room . . . I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, no, you’re Ben, correct? Please come on in, this is the right room,” said Sexy Arab. “My name’s Omar. You are extremely beautiful.”
Well, this was going to be a piece of cake as the feeling was mutual.
“Did Andrew from the agency tell you of my problem?” asked Omar. FUCK, HE HAS A PROBLEM!!!
“No,” I answered.
“Well, the problem is my penis is incredibly large and no woman can take it which is why I hire boys . . . but it seems most boys can’t even get it in their mouths let alone allow me the honor of making love to them.”
Was he joking? I was being paid 200 pounds to try and cram a monster cock into my mouth and he was apologizing! I had a massive hard-on.
“Hmm . . . oh dear, I hope I’ll be to your satisfaction,” I breathed, trying to sound seductive.
“Andrew told me you were a virgin.” I burst out laughing and then realized he was serious. Quickly I tried to cover my mistake.
“Virgin . . . oh, yes, this is my first time,” I stammered, trying to sound coy. “Be gentle with me, Omar.”
Saying this, I ripped off his underwear like I was a wolverine and he was smuggling a baby lamb in his knickers. And boy, it WAS the size of a baby lamb! His cock was huge! I fell to my knees, stretched my jaws like one of those snakes you see on the Discovery Channel swallowing a pet poodle, and Omar fell back on the bed moaning with pleasure. He kept saying not to stop.
“Don’t you want to fuck me?” I gasped.
“I’m afraid it will hurt you, especially since you are a virgin.”
“Virgin? Oh, yes, well let’s try. I think I can manage,” I squealed as I did the splits on his cock like Olga Korbut on the balance beam. He felt huge inside of me and luckily he came immediately. I wasn’t sure how much of that punishment I could have taken.
When I left that night Omar pushed five hundred pounds into my hand. FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!!! I floated out of the Savoy on a cloud of cash. I had discovered my dream career. Andy phoned almost the minute I walked in the door.
“Omar loved you, he wants to see you again tomorrow night. And I’ve got another call for you in Shepherd’s Bush. Can you be there in forty-five minutes?”
And that was how it all began. Andy would call me at least five times a day with bookings, and being so young and incredibly horny, I did them all. Of course, I soon realized that not every client was going to look like Omar or be as much fun, but I fell into the swing of things pretty quickly. If some ugly is sucking your cock, just close your eyes and think of that new sofa and voila! Ugly Gob turns into Mister Gorgeous.
After a couple of months of working, I still hadn’t met the mysterious Andy. We talked frequently on the phone and he began to confide in me. He didn’t have many friends, it seemed, and those he had were hookers that worked for him, many of whom had ripped him off by running away without paying him. I was young but I wasn’t stupid. I always made sure he got his cut on time and I reported the exact amount the client gave me.
What I found so fascinating about the job was that I would meet all sorts of interesting men from all over the world. Invariably, they were successful businessmen who were married with children, exactly the type of men who turned me on most.
An interesting aspect about escorting is that a lot of the clients confide in you as if you were their psychiatrist. They would explain to me that they were secretly gay but had gotten married due to society’s pressures and because it was expected of them. I learned over the years that there are tons of gay men trapped in marriages with wives who never know about their husbands’ secret longings and desires.
Over the two years I worked for Andy I built up an enormous list of regular clients. Andy gave me a lot of work because I was extremely honest and didn’t mind getting up at two and three o’clock in the morning to turn a trick. This, of course, got really old, really quickly. Andy was the type of guy that would call you up and say, “Ben, I have a booking for you. You have to be Italian.”
“But, Andy, I have blonde hair.”
“Well, can’t you run down to the supermarket and buy a black dye and run it through your hair? He’ll be at your place in thirty minutes.”
If you refused, Andy would cut off further work until you apologized for not being more agreeable. He would toss you a few severely overweight clients as punishment, then you would return to the full time work until you refused again, then the whole cycle would start all over. So, yep, I was loaded, but I had no life of my own, being at the constant beck and call of Andy.
One day Andy phoned with a real surprise.
“Listen, do you fancy going to Brazil? To Rio?” he asked.
“With a client?” I gasped.
“No,” a long pause. “With me, I was supposed to go with a college friend, but they let me down. So I thought maybe we could go together.”
Now remember, I had no idea what Andy looked like and he only had a description of me from various clients. I felt put on the spot. Would declining hurt my chances of getting the better clients?
“Well, I’ve been buying a lot of clothes and furniture, so I don’t know if I have enough cash.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied, “I’ll give you more work. So you’ll have plenty of money to pay your expenses.”
Hmm, Brazil. I’d never been, but it sounded fabulous and exotic and I loved Brazilians.
“OK, let’s do it, it will be sensational, we’ll have a blast together,” I gushed, hoping for the best in spite of my fears.
“Oh, there’s one more thing. Skinhead Michael will be there with a client of his. The client’s a paraplegic.”
Skinhead Michael was another boy who worked for Andy. I had met Michael when he and I did a threesome with a client who wanted us to bathe him, powder him then put him in a diaper. It’s a form of sex called infantilism and seemed to be very popular with straight, powerful businessmen. I was always popping down to Mothercare to buy diapers. I told the girl behind the counter I had an aged father who had bladder control issues so I needed XXXL and she gave me a discount.
Michael lived in a freezing cold apartment in South Kensington. By day he was a skinhead, and by night he was a drag queen called Maria Malapasta. He worshipped Maria Callas and his sole aim in life was to meet some ninety-year-old millionaire who would drop dead and leave him everything.
I thought even if I didn’t like Andy I would have a laugh capering on the sands of Ipanema with Skinhead Michael, so I accepted Andy’s offer to go to Rio de Janeiro.
“Darling, you must be simply insane! Do you have any idea what Andy looks like?” I was sitting in Harry’s Bar in London with my friend Shakira, a thousand-pound-an-hour hooker. I had met her when Andy had called me and asked if I could fuck a girl while a client watched. I had fucked girls before but very rarely. Most of the time I had pretended to be drunk, which justified why I coul
dn’t get a hard-on when I made out with them. I explained this to Andy, but he told me Shakira was exceptional, a stunning Indian goddess whom clients paid a fortune to fuck.
The first time I met her outside the Dorchester Hotel, she climbed out of a black Porsche wearing a tangerine suede miniskirt, thigh-high suede Manolo Blahnik boots of the same color and matching lipstick.
“Darling, you’re gorgeous,” she shrieked. “Now don’t stand there with your mouth open, let’s take this bastard for every penny he has.”
“But I don’t know if I’ll be able to fuck you.”
“You’re hilarious!” she laughed “Of course you’ll be able to.” She looked at me with Persian kitten eyes and stroked her waist-length black hair and I knew right there I’d have no problem.
She dragged me up to the client’s suite.
“Cocaine?” he offered.
“No, darling, I never touch the stuff, but Ben will have some.” Cocaine!!! I had never done coke before in my life!
“Thanks,” I stammered. The client, who bore a striking resemblance to Mahatma Gandhi, offered me an enormous platter and a straw. There must have been ten grams on it.
“Help yourself, I’m going to freshen up,” said the old man. He went into the bathroom. I reached for the straw.
“Are you crazy?” whispered Shakira, grabbing the straw from my hand. Saying this, she opened up her purse, took out a jiffy bag and poured in the whole plate. “We can sell it to a friend of mine,” she laughed, “I’ll give you half the cash.” She rubbed some onto her teeth as the bathroom door opened.
“What happened to the coke?” gasped Mahatma.
“Poor Ben . . . he has a dreadful habit . . . shall we start with you licking my pussy, and has anybody ever told you look remarkably like Omar Sharif?”
Shakira was a star and I adored her. Every Friday lunch we would eat at the most expensive restaurants in London and I gladly worshipped at her shrine.
“Darling, you simply can’t go to Rio with Andy. He’s frightening looking.” She leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in my ear. “When he was a baby, the midwife delivered him with fire tongs after he got stuck mid-birth and now he has a head the shape of a monkey nut, very E.T.”
“Shakira,” I gasped, “that can’t be true.”
“Fine. See for your self,” she pouted. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Waiter, more champagne.” The waiter jumped to attention and I suddenly realized Shakira, who was wearing no panties, had been flashing the waiters. No wonder we always got amazing service!
Shakira hadn’t been lying. Andy did look like E.T., but who said I couldn’t enjoy a fabulous holiday in South America with an extraterrestrial.
I met Andy at Heathrow Airport and we caught the Varig flight to Brazil. During the entire twelve-hour flight I marveled at Andy’s resemblance to the Steven Spielberg puppet. Quite remarkable. He told me on the flight that he had started off in hotel management but had fallen upon escorting quite by accident and had eventually opened his own agency.
We were to stay at the Rio Othon Palace Hotel on Copacabana Beach. Skinhead Michael and his client Pat, the paraplegic, would be also at the same hotel. Pat had broken his neck showing off in the surf years before and could now move only his head around. Despite his affliction he turned out to be an incredibly sweet guy. He had taken Skinhead Michael to Rio for three weeks and I was blown away by how Michael cared for him. Michael was his nurse, friend and sexual playmate. For kicks Michael would pick up stunning Brazilian hookers and they would have sex with Michael in front of Pat.
If Michael could be such a saint, I figured I could put up with “Phone Home” for two weeks. Wrong. In no time I had a blazing row with Andy. The months of resentment for putting up with his crap, “Can you be Swedish? Can you pretend you had a sex change? Can you shag a granny trannie?” came boiling out. The four of us had been out drinking Mojitos at a steak restaurant on Ipanema Beach. I had met the Brazilian Ambassador to England in Rio, and I had been having dinner with him every night. I was developing a taste for rich food and even richer men. Andy was pissed off I wasn’t spending more time with him, but he had such an unpleasant personality and I wasn’t getting any younger. I was twenty-four for God’s sake!
In addition to drinking we had been taking Pat’s Valium, so we were all pretty fucked up. Pat and Michael went to bed early because Michael had to rub him with aloe balm. Michael and I had gotten drunk on the beach that day and we had left Pat in the sun by mistake. He was a crispy cripple and Michael felt terrible . . . me too. Left alone, I looked at Andy through a blur of Valium and rum and for the second time that day wished I was sharing a room with anybody but him.
“Andy, I have something to tell you,” I huffed. “I’m leaving the agency. I’m going to put my own advert in and work for myself.”
Andy went thermonuclear. How dare I betray him like this? He was the reason I was the most successful escort in London. Without him, I would be nothing! He told me I was the most ungrateful son of a bitch on the planet despite the fact I was making him a fortune.
“Let me tell you something, you’re just some skinny blonde, and you’re ten a penny! I can buy and sell you a million times over!” he yelled loud enough for guests at the neighboring tables to hear.
“Yeah, well when that midwife pulled you out of your mother’s vagina with fire tongs she must have squeezed your brain too tight!” I shouted.
“What midwife? I was born at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,” he spluttered.
Shakira, you lying cow!
Andy leaped up and stormed out of the restaurant. After he left the table I reflected on his cruel words. He was right . . . I was too skinny. I was six feet tall but still only weighed 160 pounds. Perhaps I should think about going to the gym. I knew just the place to start hitting the weights . . . Earl’s Court Gym.
Andy caught a plane back home the following day. I never spoke to him again apart from when some lunatic threw a hatchet through his office window. He called up and accused me of wielding the deadly weapon. I told him it must have been some other disgruntled employee of his. Rio was a dream without him, and Skinhead Michael and I became fast friends. I returned to London and wrote my own ad to put in the Gay Times:BEN (24) HOT BLONDE BEACHBOY TYPE. BLUE EYES,
GREAT TAN LINE AND PRIVATE CENTRAL LUXURIOUS
APARTMENT . . . IF I’M NOT WHAT I SAY, YOU DON’T PAY.
I never looked back. My phone rang off the hook twenty-four hours a day. It got so bad that I had to switch the ringer off at night. Even so, Andy’s words still haunted me. I was skinny, but everybody I knew was skinny. I plucked up the courage and finally went to Earl’s Court Gym.
The guy on the desk was a fucking GOD. Sean Garret. He had a thick Liverpudlian accent and a flat top and I thought I would melt just by looking at him. He was a huge bodybuilder and totally straight. Oh dear, this reeked of trouble. Everybody in the gym fancied him, it turned out. He lived with his punk rocker girlfriend Kaz in a basement apartment on Gloucester Road. They had both just moved to London from Liverpool. I joined the gym immediately.
Much to my surprise I took to working out like a duck to water. The gym became the hub of my social life. Gyms weren’t as popular back then as they are today, but Earl’s Court Gym was state of the art. Of course, at first what kept me going back was sexy Sean Garret and his Liverpudlian charm, not to mention his humongous glutes and pecs. Escort clients would hire me and I would close my eyes, pretending I was fucking Sean instead of some old billy goat. God help the client if he was half decent looking; I would french kiss his face off, imagining I was snogging my Liverpool warrior. I jerked off constantly, thinking about Sean. When my muscles started to grow I was blown away. I would ask Sean’s advice about my body all the time. He patiently explained to me how I needed to eat a gram of protein for every pound I weighed, and he taught me to cut out the alcohol I imbibed liberally. I started buying all the bodybuilding magazines I could get my hands on: Fle
x, Muscle & Fitness and Musclemag. They were full of impossibly beautiful men wearing posing trunks. Two bodybuilders I was especially crazy over were Chris Dickerson, who had won the Mr. Olympia title in 1982, and Chris Duffy, who went on to win the Mr. America championship. I would always buy magazines if those two behemoths graced the covers.
Having been a dancer, I had a very fast metabolism, and I didn’t feel my body was growing quickly enough. I told Sean my concerns. I wanted to be Popeye, not Olive Oyl.
“I told you, mate, more protein.”
“But I’m already eating a cow a day,” I whined. Sean stared at me with his big brown eyes and said, “OK, what are you doing on Sunday?”
“Nothing,” I stammered. This wasn’t strictly true. I had a client who had flown in from America to see me—Thomas Morrison. Thomas was incredibly wealthy and was somehow related to the Vanderbilt family. He had a wife and four children, but for some reason he had fallen madly in love with me. He would send me gifts and pages and pages of handwritten love letters. He was a nice guy, but I felt nothing for him. I was in love with straight Sean.
“I’m doing nothing on Sunday,” I repeated.
“Well, Kaz, my girlfriend is out for the night, do you wanna go to a movie and play some pool in Camden?”
“Sure, I love pool,” I lied. Pool? The nearest I had come to a pool stick was when I stuck one up a client’s ass when he was too gruesome to fuck one rainy day in Weston Super Mare. I had traveled down by train early to find the guy was an albino, so I fucked him on his pool table with a cue. I still remember his pink, grateful eyes and white, white skin against the green baize of the table. I never ate rabbit again.
I wasn’t quite sure how playing pool and watching Blade Runner was going to improve my physique, but hey, I would be hanging out with Sean and I could pretend he was my boyfriend, at least for the day. Sunday rolled around and Sean told me he would be at my place at noon sharp. The night before I had had dinner with Thomas Morrison then gave him a blowjob while I listened to the Muslims shout at each other in the meat shop below. I sucked his dick, imagining it was Sean’s. I nearly let him cum in my mouth.
