I Had to Say Something (3 page)

What I provided for men like Art had little to do with sex. These men want intimacy with another man, something they're unable to experience elsewhere. Sure, there were some kinky fantasies that I fulfilled. Men like Art, however, just want to be held or touched. I'm not making this up. What I provided was different than the raw sex you get from a hustler or hooker. If you want an analogy, what I provided was more along the lines of a combat nurse.

I have seen literally hundreds of wounded men like Art, all showing the emotional battle scars of trying to live a life other than the one they want to live. These men would come to me depressed, needy, and usually with little or no self-respect. Sometimes they were in situations that they could not get out of, a kind of war zone. I would bring a wounded troop into my care, and it was my job, if possible, to mend and patch them up. Then, once they were stable enough to leave my care, I would send them back into combat. It's not a stretch, really. These men wouldn't be coming to me if everything were fine and honest in their lives. Art certainly was not seeing me because his life was going well. I knew that from the moment I met him.

During another visit around Christmas, Art asked me to lie on top of him. That was a big step for him, one that told me he wanted to get more physical. The massage table was sturdy and could hold up to six hundred pounds. Art lay on his back, and I climbed on top of him, pressing my genitals against his. Once Art was comfortable with me on top, he put his arms around me and held me.

Even though my legs were getting tired, Art was enjoying
the mere physical contact of our bodies. But come the end of the hour, once things were over, they were over for Art. That first year, without fail, he always got up quickly from the massage table, grabbed his clothes, and raced to the bathroom. Once the bathroom door opened, he would pay me, say thank you, and leave.

Once I saw tears form in his eyes, but I didn't say anything. When a man cries in front of another man, especially one he does not know well, there is some deep-seated pain there. I felt bad for him. I would have loved to ask him what was going on, but he didn't want to go there. He wanted as few words as possible, and that was okay. He was getting something from our visits, I hoped. Over the course of a year, I had become a monthly expense, just like his gasoline or his cable bill.

One time, he placed his wedding ring on top of his underwear on the chair. The light from the candle reflected off of it. I began to wonder why he didn't take the time to put the ring in a pocket or hide it somehow, as he usually would have. I estimate that almost 80 percent of my clients were married men. Art was trying to tell me one of two things:
I'm happily married so don't even think about falling in love with me
, or,
I'm married and miserable so tell me everyone else is miserable, too
. At the end of the hour when he picked up his clothes, I watched as he put his ring back on. My only concern was that it looked like a very expensive ring, and I didn't want him to lose it.

In 2004, Art totally surprised me one time by greeting me with a big kiss. Many of my clients who weren't comfortable being gay would avoid kissing another man, because they thought it was a sign that you really are a homo. Art's kiss came out of left field. I wanted to be careful not to discourage
him, but I also had to let him know that I wasn't really into kissing clients. Even though I charged a lot per session, I would let clients know that I was still in charge.

I turned my lips from Art and let him kiss me on the cheek. He hesitated a bit but seemed not to be troubled by my response. I wanted him to take his time, and I tried, while saying little, to let him know that everything would be all right. But rather than let the moment slide, I pushed him toward the massage table and prompted him to get undressed.

One time, in February or March of 2004, when he called me to make an appointment, my caller ID showed a 719 area code, which meant he was calling from Colorado Springs.

“Mike, I'm flying into Denver later today. Can I see you when I get there?”

Well, either he was flying from Colorado Springs to Denver or he was lying, but who cared?

“I'd really like to see you tonight!” he said.

I looked down at my watch.

“You'd be on my way home,” Art said. “I'd really like to see you.”

I rubbed my eyes, blinked a few times, and then said sure.

“Thank you, Mike.” And then, click, and all was quiet again.

When I saw him that night, I wore a jockstrap instead of gym shorts, just to vary things a bit. He seemed to really like it and asked if he could try it on. I let him wear it, and over the course of the next few visits, I let him try on some other underwear, including a couple of off-the-shelf thongs. He seemed to especially like the Stars-and-Stripes thong, which I had received as a gag gift a few years earlier.

Another time during that first year, he asked, “Can we just sit on the couch?” I said sure and took him over to the futon, where we both sat and rubbed each other for awhile. The
room was again lit with just one tea candle, but Art remained clothed, refusing to undress until he was ready to get on the massage table. He showed a desire to become more intimate.

If I could think of one word to describe Art during that first year, it would be
gentleman
, because Art truly was a gentle man. He would never try anything rough or sneaky with me. He never challenged me or tried anything fast. More than anything else, he seemed to want my affection. He never said he loved me, and that was good. But I could tell he was feeling something.

He could not get enough of me. Given the choice, I believe he would have spent much more time with me. There was always eagerness when he called to book an appointment and incredible sadness each time he left. It hurt me to know that when our hour was up, he had to go back to the life that he had made for himself. I had no idea what that life was, but I could tell he did not enjoy it as much as he enjoyed seeing me.

Many first-year clients get nervous, and some probably have a drink or smoke pot to help them lighten up before they arrive. Art, however, would only drink water. As someone who is into bodybuilding, I found that healthy, and again, I tried to encourage him whenever I could.

I had many clients who fell in love with me and showered me with roses, champagne, coffee table books of nude males, and gift certificates to local restaurants. It all meant nothing to me. Some clients even wanted to take me to Europe to play out some exotic fantasy they had. I wished they could see our relationship as just business, and thankfully, Art came off as understanding that, at least during that first year. He was not interested in a relationship.

Art's life seemed so fragmented, each part disconnected from the other parts. My job wasn't to help him sort it all out.
I was being paid to be just one piece of the puzzle. I was like a toy he played with when he wanted to and put away when he had to.

 

If only all my clients had been that easy to decipher. The truth is there were many who touched me more deeply than Art ever did.

One was a man who was visiting from Italy and wanted to book an appointment several days ahead. He was very specific, requesting the two o'clock time slot on Friday afternoon. Leading up to our meeting, he called every day to confirm our appointment. I assured him everything was set, figuring he was calling a lot either because he was very nervous or very married. When Friday rolled around, he called again around noon to verify, and this time he used a phrase I heard all too often: “Hey, can I ask you something?”

When a client says that, get ready for a request that may push the envelope of good taste and judgment.

“Would it be okay if I wore women's lingerie to my appointment?”

Oh, is that all?
“Sure,” I replied. I never personally got into ladies' lingerie or related articles, but if it made clients feel comfortable, then why not?

When two o'clock rolled around, I stepped out on my balcony, which overlooked the street, looking for a guy to show up in drag. I saw a handsome guy dressed in nice jeans and a collared shirt get out of a truck and walk toward my building.

A moment later, my phone rang. “It's Giovanni.”

“C'mon up,” I said, buzzing him in. He knocked on my door, and there stood the man from the street. I was pleasantly surprised to see this handsome Italian man standing at my door. I welcomed him into my apartment, took him to the
massage room, lit a few candles, and fluffed some pillows as he undressed. He lay down on the massage table wearing nothing but a pair of lacy women's panties.

As I put massage lotion on my hands, I could tell that he wanted to talk, but he was nervous. So, as I did with any client who was a bit uneasy, I smiled, touched him gently, and tried to make him feel more at home. Soon his panties came off, a light conversation started, and his tension seemed to melt away. I could tell clients were relaxing when they appeared to sink more deeply into the massage table. That always made me feel good—helping someone relax and enjoy the hour. He wasn't chatty, but he did have a lot to share.

Yet as our session wound down, Giovanni's sadness was obvious. That's common—feeling sad as the fantasy hour winds down to yield to reality. Giovanni got off the table, packed up his things in his backpack, and put his boy clothes back on, all without saying a word. He handed me the money, but I could see in his eyes that he was feeling a bit empty. I said thank you, gave him a big bear hug, and watched him leave.

Later that night, I received another call from him.

“Can I book another appointment for tomorrow?” he asked.

I took a quick look at my calendar. “Yes, Giovanni, that will work fine.”

“Can I come at two o'clock again?”

I said yes, wished him a good evening, and went to bed.

Like clockwork, he buzzed my apartment at two o'clock sharp, carrying the same backpack. Inside the massage room, he was wearing women's undergarments that were much more elaborate, much more frilly, all made of beautiful red silk. I could tell he was more at ease with me this time, telling me a whole lot more about his life in France and Italy.

“I want you to know how comfortable I felt with you yesterday,” he said with a slight but sexy European accent. I said I considered it an honor that he wanted to see me two days in a row. I wasn't lying about that.

Yet once again, as our time came to a close, I could see the sadness in his eyes as he gathered his things, gave me the money, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, and left—all without saying a word. I felt bad for him. Maybe this was all he could do to explore his hidden feelings, what some people might call his feminine side.

To my surprise, he called later that night, asking if he could come over a third day in a row. I booked him for two o'clock.

Just three visits in, and we were already into a routine. He enjoyed touching me, but that was not the main reason he paid two hundred dollars a pop to see me. He enjoyed women's clothes. For some reason, this was the only outlet he had for dressing as he pleased and being with whom he wanted.

For his next appointment, Giovanni took off his clothes to reveal new lingerie and a garter belt with nylons. “You look great,” I told him, and he was flattered by my comment. We did our usual touch and fondle, but as things progressed, tears welled up in his eyes.

“What's wrong?” I asked carefully.

“Mike, I cannot tell you how much this means to me,” he confessed, wiping his eyes with a tissue I handed him. “This is such a dark secret I live with and do not share with any of my friends or acquaintances.”

Boy, do I know about secrets!
Giovanni grabbed my hand and held it. “You have made me feel special and accepted.” He started crying.

It was close to the end of our session, so I lifted him off the table and gave him a great big hug. “Everything is going to be
okay,” I whispered. “I want you to feel comfortable with me, so just be yourself.” I thought about extending the session for no charge, but I decided against it, trying to be as businesslike as possible. He again gathered his things, kissed me, and left.

It came as no surprise when I got another call from him later that night, asking if he could come over yet again the following day. He said he didn't want to get naked or have sex, just enjoy my company.

“I would be honored,” I told him.

When he arrived the next day at, yes, two o'clock, he had a gift bag for me. In it were gourmet wines, chocolates, and sauces, all things he said he enjoyed from Europe. He said that he hoped I would enjoy them as much as he did. I thanked him as we sat on the couch, hugging and touching each other without doing anything sexual.

He told me this would be the last time he could see me before he left the United States.

“Please be at peace with yourself,” I told him. “And screw everyone else!”

He cried as he was leaving, and hell, I almost started to cry.
All this man wants to do is dress in the clothes that he likes and that turn him on, and look at all the heartache it's causing him.
Ironically, that charade and its pain is one of the main reasons I was in business. Intimacy among men is so rare that when they find a place where they can get it, many men will do or pay anything. Clients like Giovanni and Art are just two names among many.

So, you see, a good escort not only has sex but also provides joy to people who may not have much otherwise.

 

I received a call from an acquaintance. He told me that he and his partner had taken in a friend, a man named Paul, who was
just fifty but in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's disease. My friend wanted to provide Paul with a massage and some man-to-man contact.