So, one year ago today, I made my first move into the world of escorting. Yay for me, right. On the Escorts Forum website, Ms Munro posed a few questions for me around this momentous occasion. I’ve been intending for a while to try out this whole blogging thingumy, and figured this was a good way to get started.

So how did I begin down this path? How does one go from the life I used to lead, to a life in the sleazy, sordid world of the flesh trade? Perhaps not surprisingly, it was really quite simple. Having gotten out of a decade-long relationship a few months earlier, I was understandably doing everything I could to make up for lost time. Actually that should probably read “doing everyone I could”. I’m bisexual, and had for a long time suppressed this side of myself. Perhaps due to this repression of my bisexuality, the majority of people I was hooking up with were men. Or perhaps it’s just that men are easier to score. At the same time, I was getting into some pretty dire straits, financially speaking. So one day, the logical (for me anyway) conclusion sprang to mind. I was meeting up with random strangers for sex, I needed money, so why not put the two together, and become a man-whore.

I suppose I should say that I argued the moral and societal implications of this decision. That I spent days wrestling with my conscience. But the truth is that I didn’t. The decision was a very easy one to make, and once reached, it felt right. I have always been “highly-sexed”. I guess most guys will lay claim to that, but in my case it really is true. Not just the normal red-blooded male sex drive, but rather a permanent desire to push sexual boundaries, to try as many new and varied indulgences as humanly possible. The standing joke used to be that I was, rather than bisexual, trisexual. As in try-anything-sexual. So at the risk of sounding blasé, this sojourn down the path less traveled was remarkably easy to begin.

Being a man, I assumed (correctly) that parlours would be pretty much a non-starter for me. Therefore, the only path I saw open to me was to work independently. My first stop was the NZPC, where the lovely Carol proved to be a veritable font of information. She confirmed that private was the only way for me to go, but also told me not to expect much if any work, as Dunedin isn’t a good place to find women willing to “pay for it”. When I explained that I was bi, she revised it to “you’ll do better then, but don’t give up your day job”. So armed with a new worker’s kit, I trotted off to the local paper to place my first ad.

Wednesday, D-Day. My phone goes off a few times, guys wanting to know what I look like, what I charge, what I’ll do for the money. Finally a call turns into a booking. He’s from out of town, he’s in a hotel, and he wants me. Well, he wants someone, and I present the best prospect of safe discreet fun that’s not going to end up stalking him. Half an hour, a nice easy intro to the job. What will he want? “How about a massage to start with and we’ll see where it goes from there”. Great, that doesn’t really tell me what I’m in for.

Okay here’s the first stumbling block. I’m bi, I’ve given head to God knows how many men. I’ve fucked my fair share (possibly more than my fair share). But I’ve never been fucked. It’s something I’ve long fantasized about and wanted to do, but had always chickened out. It’s one of those things that, once done, can never be undone. But
now a man is going to give me money, and will possibly want to put an end to my anal virginity in exchange for said money. Talk about putting your ass on the line.

Time passes, and the time of my booking draws nigh. Showered, shaved (upstairs & down) and smelling nice, I arrive at the room. I’m greeted by a friendly enough chap. We small-talk for a bit, money changes hands, and then it’s time. We strip and move to the bed. I start to massage his back. This isn’t so bad, we’re talking easily, it’s not that unlike any other hookup I’ve had. He rolls over so I can massage his front. Things begin to progress ………..

Half an hour later, dressed, feeling a small bulge of twenties in my back pocket, I’m ready to leave. He still has a big smile and sweat beading his forehead. He had a great time. He’ll definitely call me again next time he’s in town. He wishes he’d been able to book me for longer. Somewhat sheepishly I tell him that I enjoyed myself too. I tell him he was my first. He feigns surprise, but I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe me. After all, I’m a whore, so of course I’m only saying what I think he wants to hear.

We say our goodbyes, and I leave. Walking down the corridor, how do I feel? I’m now officially a prostitute. A sex worker. A hooker, a whore, a tart. Worse still…I’m a man-whore and I take male customers. Can I be any lower? Actually yes, I could be a lot lower. I’m virtually airborne as I walk away. I have this silly grin plastered across my face as I tell myself “I just got paid for doing something I would have done anyway”.

I get home and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Do I look different now? Nope. I feel different. It’s as if this night has bestowed upon me some new-found confidence. I already knew that I was a fairly talented lover (not bragging, just stating a fact), but now I was a professional. It was the sexual equivalent of transitioning from club rugby to playing for the ABs.

And now a year has past. I often look back on that first booking, and wonder, if it had been less pleasant, would I have continued? Probably. Would it have coloured my thoughts on the industry? Maybe initially, but overall, I don’t think so. Do I regret my easy decision to sell myself? Not at all. My only “regret” is that I must hide my work from public view. I fervently wish that I could go public. The likes of Ms Munro are truly an inspiration. To boldly say to the world “I’m a sex-worker – deal with it”. I wish I could. A handful of close friends know what I do, but I have to consider the effects upon a miniature person if I was to go public.

So there you have it. My first foray into blogging, describing my first foray into whoring. If things go well, and if anyone actually wants to read my words, I’d like to turn this into a regular thing. I think I’ll leave Sally’s follow-up questions for another time, as this mental meandering has already flowed on longer than initially intended.