I Had to Say Something (11 page)

 

I probably stood out more than others because everybody knew my father was Sergeant Jones. Sometimes I could get away with things that other kids couldn't; other times it seemed that I couldn't get away with anything. Sometimes my father would try to make it seem that the advantages outweighed the disadvantages, like when he would confiscate firecrackers from kids, then turn around and give them to me. I would turn around and sell them to make a quick couple of bucks.

A few times our car windows were bashed in, and we knew immediately that it was because my father was the long arm of the law in Edgewater. It was a part of life that we just accepted. He spent most of his career working with juveniles, or youth programs, and was the kind of cop who was not out to get anyone. He worked a lot with first offenders, hoping to get them off the track they were heading down. Sometimes kids would get picked up for shoplifting or other petty crimes. If he busted you, he was more likely to let you go and tell your parents than take you down to the station or write a ticket. He also had the option of letting kids perform community service, a decision that was entirely at his discretion. He'd have them cutting weeds or sweeping floors. It was all perfectly legal. Back then, it was easier for an officer to use his own good judgment.

When your father is a police officer, there is always a tension
woven into your life, and you learn to accept it. We knew quite well that every day he went out, there was a possibility he would not come home. That's just how it is in law enforcement families.

One time my father responded to a disturbance call at a local drug store, which had closed for the day. It was nighttime, and the caller said he heard banging and other noises coming from behind the store. My father was the only officer on duty. He thought someone was probably drunk and had fallen near the drug store.

As he approached the store, he drove around back but noticed nothing. He then drove around to the front of the store and saw a car parked at the front entrance. As he got out of his squad car, he noticed a man hiding underneath the car. My father drew his weapon and ordered the man out from under the car. The man underneath the car had a gun, which my father quickly secured.

Dad then wisely ordered backup from Denver Police. They were there in minutes, and when they entered the drug store, they came across two men who had broken in. After shaking those two down, weapons were found on each of them.

The men were arrested and my father was all right, but the incident did shake him to his core. He didn't tell us about what had happened until much later in life. If I had heard stories—true stories—like that as a kid, I would have been a wreck. By the time he retired in 1983, he had risen to Assistant Chief of Police.

 

When I turned sixteen, I wanted to get my driver's license just like every other kid. I didn't want to drive so I could go cruising, however. I wanted to drive so I could take my mother out to do things.

Since we both loved theater, we went to a lot of small play-houses. Comedy shows, more than dramas, were our favorite because they gave us the chance to laugh out loud together. I got to see something other than my bedroom walls, and she got to go out and have a good time.

My parents didn't push me to start dating girls. Their approach was mostly hands-off, and that gave me freedom to explore what I wanted. They taught me how to be a decent and respectful person, and that has really served me well. They never asked me who I was dating or when I was getting married.

Still, I decided that maybe it was time I got out and tried to make friends, though I didn't know how to go about it. I tried to date in high school, but it was a disaster. I was afraid to ask girls out, so they would have to ask me out. But I got the feeling that girls asked me out because they felt sorry for me. By this point, I was already a weight-lifting champ, but I was still an outcast and a loner.

My sexual being, however, was blossoming just as I was becoming successful in bodybuilding. During my junior year, I had sex with a teacher. During class, I could tell he was interested by the way he looked at me. At an early age, I had developed gaydar, or a gay sexual radar, that made me sensitive to something in men's eyes. I could see when they were interested in playing.

“Mike, I can help you with your studies, if you like,” he told me. Back then, flirting and intimacy between teachers and students was common, but no one talked about it. Since I really was struggling with my grades, I said yes and hoped he would just happen to do it in the nude.

I went to his house many times. If his very attractive wife was there, he would simply say he was tutoring me. But when she was gone, we got naked and had fun. He was a good-looking
man in his late thirties. Because of his help, I not only got laid, but my grades went from a D to a B in his class.

After graduation, my looks started to mature and got better. My body was looking great from all the weight lifting. I started wearing contacts instead of glasses, and my acne problem started to dissipate somewhat. I was very happy with my entry into adulthood, but I had no idea that I would be able to take those looks all the way to the bank.

My mother was still the best friend I had. She needed to share her life in a way she couldn't with her husband or her two other sons. And I needed a friend, plain and simple. My duty to my mom was to be there always to listen. She would vent with me as if I were a woman, and I understood her frustration from a woman's point of view. If she had any legal or financial questions, she'd come to me first. Maybe she saw me as the ideal child, embodying the good qualities of both a son and a daughter.

It always seemed I was the one all the women in the family could talk to. I remember Grandmother Jones, who lived to be ninety-six, told me that she always felt like a fifth wheel around the family. “When you are around, you always make me feel welcome,” she once told me. “You give me more attention than anyone else.”

I have always been able to recognize when someone is lonely, maybe because I know the feeling all too well. I am quick to react and give that person the time and attention they deserve. It's my nature, I guess.

 

My Grandma Jones gave me one bit of advice: always stay on your toes. This advice has served me very well on many occasions. One that I remember in particular involved a well-dressed businessman I arranged to meet in a hotel room.

“C'mon in, buddy!” the businessman said when he opened the door. “How are you? Can I get you anything?”

I can't tell you why, but suddenly my gut turned into knots. “May I use your bathroom?” I asked.

“Sure.” He took a seat at the table in the room where he had his laptop up and running.

I went into the bathroom and looked around. There were no toiletries. No shaving cream. No razor. No deodorant. No toothbrush. All the towels were still very fresh and folded. It looked like the maid had literally just cleaned the sinks.

“When did you get into town?” I asked from the bathroom, running the water but not doing anything with it.

“Yesterday,” he replied. “Boy, I sure can't wait to have some hot man-on-man action.”

I stopped cold. His words sounded very odd, as though he were reading my ad word for word.

I shut off the water, dabbed my hands on a small towel, and carefully walked out of the bathroom. Once I stepped into the foyer of the hotel room, I was prepared for just about anything. “This sure is a nice place,” I said, which was a huge lie, because it looked just like every other Hilton or Sheraton I'd been in. I used that line as an excuse to look around the room.

As I looked in the closet, what few hairs I hadn't shaved off my back were standing straight up. There were no clothes and no suitcases. I wanted to ask, “Travel light?” but I decided not to do that. It was pretty clear to me what it meant when someone has been in a hotel room for a day and there are no suitcases, clothes, or toiletries in the room.

I gazed around the room a bit more. “Everything okay?” the handsome businessman in the tie and dress slacks asked.

“How did you hear about me?”

“From your ad.”

That was all the confirmation I needed. “I'm sorry, I gotta go,” I said. “I'm really not feeling well. Sorry 'bout that.”

He immediately stood up and walked toward me, prompting me to walk backward toward the door. I was expecting him to say something like, “Why are you leaving so soon?” or “Can I make you feel better?” But he didn't say a word other than “okay” in a very matter-of-fact tone. No emotion, no trying to change my mind. Nothing, just like his toiletries.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, my heart racing faster than my feet. I closed the door to the room behind me and walked briskly down the hall. I pushed the down button several times. I got in, hit the L button, and held my breath until I got to the busy lobby.

Was that a setup I had just walked away from? The nice clothes and no suitcases probably meant that he was a cop and this was a sting, and at any moment a reporter would pop out of the closet with a camera. There was no way to know, so I listened to my gut and left. Thankfully, I hadn't gotten undressed.

CHAPTER 5

For awhile, I had a personal training business and, in the 1990s, my own small gym. Some of my clients were serious about getting in shape and some were not. Inevitably, many of them came to hit me up for sex, even though I made it very clear that my personal training business was strictly about weight training and fitness. After three years of owning the gym, I was burned-out. After all, I had been a trainer for twenty years. Plus, the rent was going up dramatically, so I decided to shut it down. Some of my personal training clients became escorting clients. Some continued to see me just for fitness training at other gyms. Some saw me just for massage.

My massage and personal training services were never a cover for my escorting services. I enjoyed doing all three because it allowed me to focus on the needs—whatever they might be—of my clients. When I advertised, it wasn't always clear what services I offered. One ad proclaimed, “Best Personal Trainer, Readers Choice, 1997 and 2000.” Then the name of my business, Mike Jones Body Masters, appeared followed by, “see also ad under massage.” In my ads, I wore next to nothing.

 

As in any other industry, there is a spoken code in the massage business. “Do you provide happy endings?” When a caller asked that, I knew they weren't talking about Swedish or deep tissue massage.

“What kind of massage do you give?” the curious would ask.

“What are you looking for?” I'd asked.

“Full body.” That was code for sex or a massage of “everything” on the body. “Does it come with release?” That's code for ejaculation.

“Yes, I can do that.” Then I'd schedule a time and place with the understanding that it's two hundred dollars an hour at my place, three hundred dollars and up per hour at any other location or on short notice. There may be an additional charge for parking and other expenses. “Should I bring my massage table?” That was another question I would ask to confirm that the client knew I was providing “other” services.

I wouldn't work in rooms that were accessible from the street, so motels were out. When United Airlines had a large number of employees based in Denver, it seemed like every pilot and flight attendant with a layover had my number. And when national touring companies for Broadway shows came through town, I did a lot of massage business, most of it being strictly massage, some of it being “other” services.

Art was a client who got the benefit of my skill in massage, personal training, and escorting. “How can I get muscles like you?” he asked one summer afternoon. He clearly had no intention of working out to the point where his biceps became noticeable. Still, I showed him how to do biceps curls and chest exercises. I had a weight bench and a set of adjustable dumbbells in my living room. Wearing just a jockstrap, I lay on the bench and pumped out a few bench presses for him.

Art's eyes were wide with excitement. He wasn't watching my form or asking about the weight. He was focused on my pecs, watching with awe as they flexed.

“Do you want to try it?” I asked.

Straddling the bench, Art tried doing some bicep curls. I made sure he used only twenty pounds, and even with that weight, he struggled.

Many clients love when I suddenly hit the ground to knock out some push-ups. While Art was doing curls, I did a set of twenty push-ups. I then encouraged Art to try it. He struggled with those, too, having to use his knees for balance on the floor.

“You'll get the hang of it,” I told him, slapping him on the shoulder blade. For kicks, I did some sit-ups while I had him hold my feet. He seemed to enjoy when I pulled my chest into his face. Seeing his erection, I took him to the massage room for our usual routine.