A Consumer's Guide to Male Hustlers (6 page)

Jed came back to the hotel. He was dripping water on the floor. "Let's go to the hot tub. I feel chilled," he said.

Other guests had the same idea. It was crowded in and around the tub. Lots of guys made passes at Jed. Once we returned to the room Jed grabbed me and threw me on the bed. We had sex for the second time that evening, and it was even better than the first time.

Jed never discussed his sexual tastes with me. I suspect that his on-and-off roommate was, at least for a while, his lover. The roommate, an unemployed graphic artist, lived on disability income. He was a plain-looking man a few years older than Jed. He had seen me often enough when I came by to pick Jed up, and was always friendly to me. Jed never told me anything about lovers, clients, or tricks. I knew that, from time to time, when he was short on funds, he would hustle.

Jed knew that I was unconditionally opposed to drugs. He never bothered to discuss, in depth, his drug habit. I do not know whether Jed did drugs so heavily because he had mental problems, or whether he had mental problems because of all the drugs he took.
²

2. There seems to be a nexus between drugs and hustling. This is not a new phenomenon. For instance, a book published in Germany in 1926, describing the Berlin hustler scene, also mentions the use of cocaine among hustlers.
The Hustler
, John Henry Mackay, translated by Hubert Kennedy (Boston: Alyson Publications, 1985).

* * *

In the winter of 1985 Jed called me to arrange a time to install a new faucet in my kitchen. I had all but forgotten that he had promised to do this a few months earlier.

When he finished the work he said, "I am giving up hustling."

"Why?"

"I am seeing a psychotherapist now. She says that being a sex object is fucking with my mind."

I was shocked. "But, Jed, you are not a sex object!"

"What am I then?"

"A great sex maestro."

I could tell he was pleased with my spontaneous reply. I wondered then how he had found the resources to see a therapist. Maybe, I thought, pushing thirty was driving him to make changes in his life.

"I wish you a happy retirement, Jed," I said, "but I will miss you very much."

I felt very saddened to lose Jed. I did not believe that hustling was why Jed was so mixed up. But once the therapist told him this he would have made this association whenever we had sex. It would not have worked for either of us.

As uncommunicative as ever, Jed had no parting words for me.

* * *

I did not see or hear from him for two years. Then I ran into him in the street. He looked gaunt and his face was pinched. Still, to me he was just as attractive as he had always been. In answer to my question he said, "I am going to school now. I am taking up graphic design."

Years earlier Jed had shown me some of his drawings. I liked them. There seemed no reason why he would not make a good graphic designer.

I wondered whether Jed had AIDS. This would explain his seeing a therapist and his ability to go to school. He was probably receiving SSI. I was not worried about myself. I had been tested a few months earlier for the first time and was negative. Jed and I had had sex before we knew about AIDS. But whatever we did, first unsafely and later on taking precautions, Jed had never penetrated me. Not having been penetrated by anybody is the only explanation I have about why I have survived while so many others, who led the same lifestyle, perished.

It took yet another year for me to bump into Jed again. By then it was obvious that he had AIDS. We chatted for a while. "Call me sometime, Jed," I said as we parted.

"I may surprise you one of these days," he said.

A while later, I found out that a new acquaintance knew Jed well. "You know, don't you, that Jed is very sick," said the acquaintance. "He'll probably die soon."

"No, I did not know that. Please give him my regards. I would like to visit him. Would you find out whether he would want to see me?"

A few days later my new acquaintance called to tell me that Jed had passed away. He had, however, received my regards before he died. I was given instructions about a memorial service for him. In death, as during his entire life, something went wrong. The address was not quite right and I could not find the place.

* * *

In retrospect, Jed and I had an arrangement that enriched both of us. I feel privileged that for some six years I had incredibly fulfilling sexual experiences with a great sex maestro.

In spite of what Jed's psychologist told him, our arrangement was good for him. On a number of occasions, I saved Jed from becoming homeless by lending him rent money. Many times I allowed him to use my phone number when applying for a job. I provided him with a decent income in return for pleasant work. (I'll state it again: I do not believe he could have faked his pleasure when having sex with me over such a long period!) I did not "buy" Jed. By paying him, I acquired slivers of Jed's time
when
I needed it.

Rest in peace, Jed. I shall always remember our lovemaking. Yes, of course, paid lovemaking. So what?

* * *

In and of itself, having a vocation for hustling does not make much change for a potential hustler. Jed also had a vocation for singing and very little came of it. As in any other profession, a variety of skills and a lot of discipline are essential to make a go of it. But, for hustlers without the calling, things are different: they wash out early or become petty or serious criminals.

Even without the social prejudice against hustling, it is a complicated job. Without the vocation, it can become an odious one for the practitioner. Those who stick with it, without having a vocation, often find illegitimate ways to make it a happier field of endeavor. I will discuss this in the chapter about safety.

Sometimes, when the hustler has an especially strong vocation for the profession, the interaction between him and his client can be a source of great psychological as well as physical delight. I will close with an anecdote about encounters with such a hustler.

OSCAR'S STORY

I have always taken great pride in the fact that I climax when I am ready to do so. More often than not, I manage to pace myself, and come simultaneously with my partner. My encounters with Oscar were very different.

In the 1960s, Oscar was a part-time hustler standing at the St. Francis Hotel waiting to be picked up. He was a Chicano guy, in his early twenties, cute rather than handsome. He always had a ready smile for a prospective client, and a real gift for gab. He held a job of some sort, and managed to rent a decent studio apartment close to the St. Francis Hotel. He took his clients there, making good use of his time.

There is a tacit, conventional understanding between hustlers and clients that, once the client climaxes, the scene is officially over. The first time I was with Oscar, I was out of his place in less than twenty minutes. This had never happened to me before!

On that occasion, Oscar had not rushed me at all. After a few minutes together in bed, Oscar deciphered the code to my orgasm preference. Without discussing it, and while displaying great affection, he maneuvered himself into the ideal frottage-bottom position. Then, moving his body synchronously with mine, as in a precisely choreographed dance, he
made
me come!

The second time around I took up the challenge. Without talking to him about his technique, I decided to resist it. I was not going to climax until I was good and ready, and I would drag it out as much as possible. By sheer willpower, I lasted some five minutes longer than the previous time. Oscar understood my sexuality better than I did myself and, once again, made me climax.

A few weeks later I ran into him in the street. "Hey, Joseph," he said, "let's go to my place and have some fun."

This was before the advent of the ATM. "I don't have enough money on me," I said.

"Don't worry about it. I'll give you credit."

In the world of street hustlers, I had just been awarded a medal. Oscar did not even know where I lived, had he wanted to collect the money in person. I was very flattered. "I'll be happy to turn a trick with you, Oscar. But, please, don't make me come so fast."

Oscar looked at me wistfully for a moment, and then grinned broadly. "So you know my secret. OK, I won't make you come."

"What do you mean, 'secret?' Isn't it obvious to your other clients?"

"Not to most of them."

"How come?"

"They think they are just super horny when they are with me, and that's why they come so fast."

We went to his place. Some twenty minutes into the action he asked, "Are you ready now?"

"Give me a few more minutes."

After a while he asked, "Now?"

"OK." A minute later, he
made
me climax. We made a date for the following week. On that occasion, I gave him the money for both sessions.

There have been two other hustlers in my life who could make me climax when they willed it. I knew, and they knew, that they had the
power
. My body was the instrument on which they played their sexual rhapsody. When the hustler has a vocation, the sexual encounter becomes magical for the client. One hopes that the hustler enjoys it as well.

Chapter 4

Why Hustlers Hustle

SPECTACULAR BUT INADEQUATE PAY

Full-time street hustlers do not, as a rule, make much money, although it would seem that they are compensated spectacularly for turning a trick. A street hustler who could earn a
maximum
of $8 per hour (minus deductions) working for a retailer will net $80 for spending an hour or less with a client. Therefore, he will sincerely believe that he is paid handsomely per hour. If he factored in the time he spends, in all sorts of bad weather, waiting for clients, he would realize that he really earns minimum wage for hard and dangerous work. Such insight would force him to admit to himself that full-time hustling is no more lucrative than many other menial jobs he could perform. This is a message that he is loath to hear.

It is not only the hours they have to put in. The waiting itself can become an extremely dangerous occupation: being attacked by other hustlers or busted by the police are distinct possibilities. How much they earn is, at the end of the day, of little practical importance. Much of it is often spent on drugs, alcohol, and useless trinkets, because this is part of the lifestyle on the street.

A new face on the street will attract many buyers. A novice hustler may make a tidy fortune during his first weeks on the job. Forever after, he will remember his $500 first day and disdain a regular job where, after deductions, he would earn one-tenth of this amount.

Hustlers working out of their homes can earn a decent wage, even after deducting their overhead for ads and pager service. However, to do this they have to be willing to answer the phone at all hours, contend with nuisance calls, and have sex after the bars close. For the lucrative out calls, they really need their own transportation. It is not an easy way of making a living, though it circumvents the discipline of the workplace.

There are, however, two classes of hustlers who do well for themselves: the part-timers and the specialists. Part-time hustlers operating out of their homes after a day's work can be choosier about answering the phone and seeing clients. They already have a salary that pays the rent. As a source of additional income hustling does bring spectacular rewards. This is even true of part-time street hustlers. To the dismay of the regulars, part-timers will take to the street when there is a convention or some such in town. They will do better because they are cleaner, fresher, and more relaxed.

Specialists are hustlers such as bodybuilders or S/M practitioners with great imagination. There are simply not enough of them to go around. Their devoted worshipers will travel thousands of miles to be with them or will fly them cross-country.

SELF-IMAGE ENHANCEMENT

Some hustlers operating out of their homes are remarkably unattractive. How such hustlers develop a steady clientele will be discussed later on. At this point, I want to quote Alex Lim, a short and thin Chinese guy with an under-exercised body, a very plain face, bad teeth, and a squeaky voice. He makes up for his physical shortcomings by his friendliness, cooperation, sincere empathy, and, last but not least, very hot, passionate, and, upon request, kinky sex. "Nobody paid attention to me in bars," he told me. "I was never asked to spend the night with anyone. Now that I charge for it, and I charge plenty, the same men are all over me, and there are only so many calls I can handle when I come home from work."

Many street hustlers who appear ugly are often only very scruffy and unkempt. For some clients, this has a charm of its own. But even truly homely hustlers get picked up. This, too, I will discuss later.

An ungainly young man who is lucky enough, on rare occasions, to be chosen by a drunken troll when the bar is about to close needs to work on his self-image. He puts an ad in the paper as a model. A week later, he may be summoned to the elegant home of a client who turns out to be a gorgeous hunk, and who tips him generously at the end of the session. Frogs can turn into princes through the magic of hustling!

SELF-JUSTIFICATION

Many hustlers engage in sex pretending (to themselves) that it is just a job. To legitimize the job, they need to get paid for the sex. The same sexual practices, done recreationally, would make them feel very guilty. Bisexuals make up the largest group of such hustlers.

Donald, a good friend of mine, worships extremely masculine men. He finds his sexual partners among blue-collar workers. He makes contact with them by placing personal ads in straight or semi-straight publications. These contacts are people who make good wages and do not really need the extra income Donald provides. However, the money is a handy excuse for engaging in homosexual acts, especially since most of his partners are married men.