A Consumer's Guide to Male Hustlers (14 page)

¹
. The baths in the San Francisco Bay area, before they were shut down, were very specialized in terms of age, ethnic group, body type, and sexual activity. The Berkeley steam bath had been predominantly black before it became a haven for all bathhouse habitues of the entire San Francisco Bay area.

Field conditions are always different from a lab setting. For instance, it was impossible for me to duplicate the potential danger a hustler faces in a stranger's home, and the feelings this would evoke. A bathhouse is the safest place for sex with strangers, since the tiny, lockable cubicles provide only an
illusion
of privacy. The partitions are so thin that even whispers can be heard in the adjacent cubicles.

There was another problem with the baths. I wanted to make sure that I would not, through body language, make myself available to someone I chose. I wanted to be picked up by someone who fancied me, regardless of how I felt about him. My first experiment had to be aborted. No sooner did I make myself available to anyone, then I was chosen by the one guy who, under ordinary circumstances, would have been
my
favorite. Of course, under ordinary circumstances, he would not have looked at me twice!

This time I stood in the hallway looking neutrally at anyone who came by. At the baths, my look would be interpreted as
maybe he is interested in me
. It took only a few minutes before an old guy stood next to me, looking at me inquiringly. I smiled pleasantly, as his hand brushed against the towel draped around my waist. This man, physically very much an older version of myself, would make a good guinea pig, I thought. I had absolutely no sexual interest in him.

"Would you come to my room?" he asked.

"Yes."

Once in his cubicle, we sat on the bed. He embraced me and said: "You're the noblest person here today."

Noblest? In all my years at the baths, the most I was ever called was a lukewarm "cute," and that happened on very rare occasions. I was pleased.

We exchanged names. He put his arm around my shoulders and asked, "What do you like to do?"

Borrowing a line from Maestro Jed, I said, "I'm into pleasing."

Whereupon Jack French-kissed me. For a split second, I felt violated. I did not expect this old man to become so intimate with me. Then I remembered that I was into pleasing. I returned the thrust of his tongue enthusiastically. Soon our bodies were entwined and we were making out wildly.

I was becoming aware that I was physically sexually aroused. I say "physically," because mentally I was observing the experiment dispassionately, and was not the least bit turned on by Jack. It was the arousal gauge that signaled to my brain that there was more than an experiment happening. Aware of my arousal, I grew more passionate, to which Jack responded ardently.

During a break in our lovemaking I asked Jack how old he was. "I am seventy-four years old," he said. Seventy-four! The oldest person I had ever been with. There had not been too many guys half Jack's age with whom I had made out. "I am married, you know," Jack added.

"Are you bi, then?"

"Nah, I am really gay. I haven't had sex with my wife for many years. I told her that I was too old to fool around. When I go to the baths, I tell my old lady that it is a volunteer job. I haven't been screwed in many years. Would you like to do it to me?"

The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to screw Jack. But if the role required it, I was ready. "I suppose so," I said. "But only with a condom."

Jack thought it over for a while and, fortunately, gave up on the idea.

Then I made a mistake. I came before him. I'll write later about the problems of hustlers climaxing during a session. I felt as if a switch had been thrown. The lustful energy had been cut off. It became very difficult for me to continue our lovemaking. Experience took over. Hurriedly, I made Jack climax. He had not noticed my sudden lack of ardor. "I haven't had good sex like this in a long time. This was wonderful. Really wonderful," he said.

I was very satisfied with my experiment. Almost until the end, things went really well. To give the experiment the final touch of authenticity I almost asked, "Where is the green?" Very low-class street hustlers will tell their clients, before sex, "Show me the green." As we parted, Jack kissed me passionately, and both of us went to the showers.

The final chapter of this experiment was written a month later. I was at the baths again and ran into Jack. Seeing his "noble friend," he wanted an encore to the wonderful experience. I was not in my hustler mode. There was absolutely no way I could have had sex with Jack. I declined curtly, and moved away from him.

Hustlers had been telling me for years that they needed to psych themselves into doing a good job with their clients. But before I conic to this topic I want to comment on my own behavior with

Jack. True to bathhouse aberrations, on one occasion Jack discovers a perfect and cooperative sex partner. The latter apparently enjoys sex with him greatly. A month later, the same noble sex partner will not even speak to him. Of course, Jack blames himself for his former sex partner's rejection. He must have offended his noble friend somehow. How could he possibly know that his partner was playing mind games when they had sex?

* * *

The first hustler who told me about psyching himself into sex was Alfonso, about whom I wrote in Chapter 4. Routinely, he would take out calls very late at night. For such calls he got paid very handsomely. "If I know the client, I don't mind getting up, driving over, and having sex with him," Alfonso told me.

"What difference does it make whether or not you know the client?" I asked.

"If I know him, I can psych myself into it."

In one way or another, hustlers use techniques that help them override their own physical preferences. One hustler told me that if he did not like a client, he would think about what he would do with the money he would get at the end of the session. Another concentrated on one physical trait he liked in the client, and managed to ignore the rest. David, a unique hustler, told me on the telephone when we set up a date, "I take only one client per day. For me it is a love sacrament." After a session with him, I knew he had told me the truth!

This ability to be professional in the face of unpleasant situations is not unique to hustlers. Lawyers defend criminals whom they abhor. They manage to ignore their own feelings, and put up a good defense for their clients. It is just our perception that sex workers are hypocritical when called upon to perform intimate physical functions that run contrary to their taste.

* * *

I managed to upset a number of people when I announced that I would write a book about hustlers, and gave them a preview of my project. One of them took the trouble to drop me a note, stating:

What you pathetically describe as "relationships" with hustlers exist only by virtue of lubrication applied by you in order to get them to slip through your door for sex. Take away that lubrication, the sex and the so-called "relationship" would cease to exist.

This note was written by a retired social worker whom I consider a worldly man. Surely, he knows that however caring and dedicated a mental health professional is, once the "lubrication" is taken away, the treatment ceases. The same is true of all service providers. Had the writer of the letter viewed my relationships with hustlers as paid-for exchanges of lustful energy rather simulated love, he would not question their sincerity.

Contrary to what is implied in the letter, there is something essentially honest about hustling. The client buys a chunk of time from the hustler during which there is an exchange of lustful energy. At the end of the session, the hustler is paid for his time and energy. If any games are played, they take place during the stipulated time. Compare this to a sugar daddy relationship or, indeed, to all straight and gay marriages in which money plays a role!

As with any independent contractor, the professional association may lead to a social relationship. My friendship with some hustlers continued after I stopped being their client. Other hustlers, who were extremely competent and affectionate in bed, confined themselves to a professional relationship. Naturally, once I stopped being their client, we had no further interest in each other.

A good example of how straightforward hustling is compared to a sugar-daddy arrangement is the convoluted story of the late entertainer Liberace and his much younger "sugar son," Scott Thorson. When the very closeted Liberace wanted to get rid of him, Thorson was given $75,000 in exchange for waiving future claims. Eventually, Thorson sued Liberace for $113 million in palimony. This was thrown out by a Nevada judge as a "money for sex" arrangement. Even in Nevada, where prostitution is legal, this is unlawful.
²

²
. "13 Years Ago: Liberace and Liberation,"
Bay Area Reporter
, March 6, 1997, p. 13.

The letter and its reference to "lubrication" brings up the question of sincerity. Clients do not require hustlers to love them. But many clients require them to climax or, at least, have an erection during the session. There is no way that one can force oneself to "show a hard." When I was with Jack in the bathhouse I
was
physically aroused, in spite of being completely disinterested in Jack—or, at least, I believed this to be the case. This physical arousal, even though it was achieved through a mind game, started a flow of lustful energy.

Our professional personas always differ in various ways from who we really are. For most of my professional life, I taught children and adults. I have a vocation for teaching, though by nature I am a very impatient person. When working as a teacher, I have been quite successful in suppressing this trait. The suppression of my impatience for the sake of the profession does not make me a hypocrite.

A hustler is in the business of supplying lust. This is bothersome to many people because they are afraid to recognize lust as a benevolent energy, unrelated (though in some respects similar) to love. This energy can be bought, sold, and exchanged.

Lustful energy can even be generated and exchanged by persons who do not like, or even hate, each other. To illustrate: A few years ago, in answer to my ad seeking a steady (paid) sex partner, Woodrow, a twenty-one-year-old man, responded. He was the most intelligent sexual partner I had ever been with—by this I mean that he would have scored the highest on an IQ test. He had arrived from Taiwan some five years earlier, finished high school in the United States, and received a BS degree in chemical engineering at the age of twenty.

Upon graduating, Woodrow could not find a job in his field. Even the two menial jobs he had managed to secure did not last long. He blamed it all on his Chinese accent when he spoke English. This was nonsense. I knew Chinese with much thicker accents who had good jobs. I believe that it was Woodrow's personality that put off employers.

Woodrow was aloof, cold, argumentative, and, according to him, very awkward in social settings. His political views, which he liked to share, would have endeared him to the ultra-conservatives, had they been open to embracing a Taiwanese immigrant. Except for his youthful appearance and sexual vigor, Woodrow was a crotchety old man.

According to Woodrow, I was only the third sexual partner in his life, and his first client. Physically, we were each other's type. Sexually, we were as compatible as can be, and fulfilled each other's expectations. The lustful energy flowed copiously between us.

Woodrow lived with his parents. His father, whom Woodrow thoroughly disliked, had been a high-ranking army officer in the Republic of China (Taiwanese) army. The last thing he would want was for his son to become a San Francisco queer. Woodrow was so closeted that we had to work out elaborate schemes to communicate with each other, until I convinced him to subscribe to a voice mail service.
³
That allowed Woodrow to work on his scheme of upgrading himself to a "sugar son." He was quite frank about his desire to live with an older—much older!—man, who would look after his needs. This would allow him to live away from his parents. I was his pilot project. Woodrow's quest for a real sugar daddy was as matter-of-fact as his plans for buying a car in the future. He was young, cute, and passionate, and there was a market for his services.

³
. Lots of hustlers, probably the great majority, attempt to be secretive (regarding their hustling) as much as possible under the circumstances. I could easily write a book of short stories with strange and implausible coincidences that have exposed hustlers to the people they feared most. In this respect, the beeper, voice mail, and cellular phones have made it much easier for hustlers to operate their business with less scrutiny by family and roommates.

Though the physical attraction between Woodrow and myself never diminished, we genuinely disliked each other after a few sessions.

I make it a point to talk to hustlers about
their
interests. Woodrow was interested in social science. Here we clashed constantly. For instance, Woodrow thought that Singapore's autocratic government should be a role model for other countries, including the United States. It was impossible to dismiss Woodrow's opinions as uninformed or juvenile. He was especially well informed about current events, and his views were not immature. If anything, they were geriatric. Woodrow also expressed homophobic views, which did not sit well with me.

I do not know whether Woodrow had a calling for hustling, though I suspect he did. I was his sexual type, and
in bed
, we liked to do the same things. What puzzled me then, and still does, is that we could have been so very intimate (e.g., passionate kissing) in spite of our mutual antipathy.