The Diary Of A Male Prostitute

Hat pegs, rattan canes and a huge butt plug called Tyson. Welcome to the world of male prostitution...
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“Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problems of existence”. Erich Fromm

Isn't this just like priests saying that God is the only answer? Quite right, my dears, if you don't mind God not existing. Well, I still believe in love. No twelve step group will ever get me to kick it. My clients also live for love. It's a passionate, burning flame. And it's renewed every time they look in a mirror.

The Male Orgasm: Vastly Overrated?

A client orgasms and instantly loses his silly, vacant grin. Oh. Fuck. Back here again. I wasn't sorry to see the high dissipate. Not after a few hours of feverish masturbation and endless wheedled instructions ('Squeeze my nipples! Squeeze my nipples!'). The guy was Brazilian, perfectly chiselled physically but with a flabby brain. He was, however, impressively focussed on his needs and was not shy about communicating them. Occasionally I would tire of squeezing these giant hat pegs as hard as I could. At which point his voice would become whinier and more dictatorial. 'Squeeze my nipples! Squeeze my nipples!' Cocaine makes men even more obsessive and annoying, particularly when they are verbalising very familiar fantasies and English is their second language. This one was still young enough to use it to intensify actual sex rather than as a means of revving the wheels without ever getting the engine in gear.

He remained hard throughout the afternoon which eventually became too much like hard work. A barmaid pulling pints for a couple of rugby teams would have had an easier time than I did - wrenching away at that tireless truncheon with little effect. I became a corrective therapist in order to avoid work and here I am getting hot, sweaty and far too bothered. Did I abandon a promising career in order to yank men's privates around? No, I abandoned show business for love - although my love of illicit chemicals turned into a marriage made in hell. Actually, why don't I just write 'turned in to a marriage'? It's hardly a secret any more how these mutual slavery contracts turn out. Back with Mr Nipples he eventually managed some pre cum. I managed to whip it up into a smoothie. It was hard to suppress a heartfelt "thank fuck for that!" Earlier on, some slow and clumsy role play featuring one of his transgendered personae triggered such an intense fit of boredom in me that he was caned much harder than he should have been.

Eastenders: Fred West Wouldn’t Let His Kids Watch It. Too Grim.

But then great hulking geezers wanting to be pre-teen convent girls is about as convincing as an episode of Eastenders. I usually persuade clients that a warm up is infinitely preferable to swift and savage brutality but this one deserved punishment rather than pleasure. Usually it's possible to trace the severity of a caning by watching red weals blossoming on previously flawless skin. It was hard to know whether I was being too severe and his pain threshold was higher due to drugs. I laid it on as enthusiastically as a sexually frustrated nun. Hopefully it would start to hurt when the sex and drug high wore off. As it was the silly grin stayed all the time we played.

Then the orgasm triggered sadness, as it sometimes does. The 'little death' is not always fulfilment. For male sex addicts an orgasm means someone's just run off with your stash. Drug addicts discover anew every day that their alternative reality inexplicably disappears leaving them with some crumpled wraps made out of lottery tickets. A sex addict's dream dissolves into the uncomfortable reality of the presence of an unsuitable partner. At least Mr Nipples, having paid for my services, could discreetly suggest it was time to leave. I had hung around for a good twenty seconds at this point, judging it might be rude to have dashed for the door before he had wiped himself clean but I was already edging towards my clothes and looking forward to an evening gorging myself on Green and Black's Dark Chocolate with real cherries. After a two hour soak in a cleansing bubble bath. And the ritual sticking of pins into my James Corden voodoo doll.


Confessions Of A Prostitute #1: Why I Do It

Confessions Of A Prostitute #2: Losing Friends

Full Body Orgasm: Save The Sperms

Perhaps too many orgasms depletes the body of zinc, leaving men listless and depressed, or may have done once upon a time in China on their lousy rice diet. Maybe this is why Taoists used to think that semen retention was the path to eternal life. The spermless full body orgasm can be learned in a week, clenching the muscles that stem the flow of urine. Can most men be bothered to learn this? Leave it out, mate! The footy's on! If you already do Kelvins – male pelvic floor tightening muscle tightening exercises – you will find this easier to master. Sometimes I think clients have a book full of handy hints.

Rules For Sex Work Clients

1. Take enough cocaine to make yourselves temporarily impotent then talk endlessly about this utterly unexpected phenomenon. Then take lots more powders and potions (don't worry about the excess poison which will be drained off by heavy sweating). You'll be able to smoke many more cigarettes than usual; make sure you have plenty to hand).

2. Why not take fifteen years off your age on the telephone? Then I will pity you for the sudden shock which turned your hair white.

He’s Better Than Philip Larkin

Feeble in Fulham’s flat is covered in kitschy poetry, framed and hung at eye level. "I wrote those," he tells me. "I'm a poet." "Really? What do you think of Philip Larkin?" I ask. "I'm better than him," he says, with no trace of irony or indeed of intellect. He's a poet - although there are no poetry books to be seen in the flat or any other books, magazines or newspapers. "I wrote several books," I tell him, which is true. And someone else published them. I didn't have to print them page by page and then hang them at eye level. He has absolutely no interest in this, of course, but then poets are spectacularly nuts, even by writer standards. This is the dolt who told me he has a 'great body'. Perhaps this is poetic license. The 'great body' turns out to be a fair amount of unstructured flab and a lot of body hair, some of it grey. Presumably it feels 'great' to him.

I take out my rattan canes while he talks, sterilise them in front of him. He tells me his disciplinary fantasies; I try to enact them. It soon becomes clear that he can't even bend over without looking like a collapsing sack of cement. He eventually kneels on his bed while I very gently cane his white doughy buttocks. He can barely take anything above the warm-up. He goes into age regression. He then wants some anal rummaging which I don't particularly fancy as he was too tight to pay for it. Incidentally, clients, whining is neither endearing or an effective negotiating technique. There's always 'Tyson' though: this black butt plug is as thick as it is vicious, as broad as it is long - just the job for some punitive anal massage.

I have it wrapped and lubed and distending the dolt's rear doorway before he can raise a whimper of protest. There are some moments of deep pleading but even this can't make a man without an erection come. Thirty-Nine? Fifty-something, more like. He asks for a hug. I seriously consider ramming Tyson down his throat but manage some maternal comfort - that is to say, a brief bony clinch and some cold, thin-lipped disapproval. Then it's time to vanish. He lives near a football ground, which gives me a rare opportunity to see a lot of men with terrible bodies, awful clothes and nasty hair styles all drunk together. Perhaps my client was right, compared to this lot he does
have 'a good body'.

My therapist told me I had many unreasonable demands - although none were as unreasonable as his bill. At least I provide my clients with a service - physical and mental therapy which actually works. Shrinks get the same money for nodding occasionally and cultivating foul beards which are, in themselves, grounds for committal. But maybe it's me who needs the straitjacket. What right do I have to attractive clients? In any case, who needs physical beauty when I met a poet who's much better than Philip Larkin? And we had a threesome with him and Mike Tyson.

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