What do you do when you discover that the object of your attention, slick dance moves, and ultimate flirting is a man of the night; working boy; escort; gigolo; hustler; rent boy; trade and all round cock-for-hire (apparently they are called ‘taxi boys’ in Argentina)? This is exactly the position I was one Saturday recently; the gorgeous young thing I had been parading my feathers for and who had shown some definite interest in me, I was reliably informed by my friend, is a prostitute and has a commercial profile on Gaydar; he also knows someone who’s paid for his services. I didn’t know whether to believe this as I’ve heard all sorts of things about various people on the scene over the years; favourite one was the guy who was rumoured to be a post-op female to male transsexual.
While we were at the bar and after this little revelation, the guy came over and started chatting. I wasn’t sure what to think now, I kept looking at him for giveaway signs – no barcode on the back of his head, or price tag on his flies; in fact there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary about him at all, you might even say he was surprisingly regular, very boy-next-door, well maybe boy-next-door-but-one; he spoke with fairly posh accent with a hint of public school about him. We chatted about the usual, although it wasn’t until later that I realised the conversation hadn’t come close to getting on to what he did for a living, the one question I was keen to ask; he’s probably very skilled in avoiding that one. He likes regular stuff, goes to the regular places and laughs in all the right places; oh and he’s fit too in a public schoolboy gone bad sort of way: you could tell he’s not a gym regular and isn’t out and about too much in daylight hours, due to his pale complexion, but you could also easily make out a nice slim body with a hint of pecs under his tight, green vest. Not sure about the cap though; guys with caps are usually hiding something, so I decided he was either ginger or curly; probably curly, he definitely wasn’t bald. Looked like he might be packing downstairs too. The best part of him, though, was his lips: gorgeous, pouting, juicy, kissable lips.
I liked this guy and we discussed what we were planning to do after the club. I told him my group were talking about heading on to a late bar and he said he might see us there. I hoped he would, but after that he was gone and I didn’t see him again that night. I thought about my friend’s little revelation and decided that if it were true, which it probably wasn’t, it must have been a one-time thing or maybe just a spell to get him through college. But, being human, I couldn’t resist checking on Gaydar when I got home, and there he was, openly advertising his services with his face on display along with the rest of him – I had a look at the restricted pics and I was right about him being blessed in the trouser department, as well as the curls. He wasn’t cheap, either and reckon he’d knocked a few years off his age.
So that was that: had a bit of a flirt with a nice young guy, didn’t have sex and it turns out he’s a rent boy. Or at least that was it until last weekend…
I noticed him while I was out clubbing in the same place. He was topless this time and strutting his stuff on the dancefloor. We made a few exchanges without acknowledging each other and I had no intention of making a move on him. However, after a few rounds at the bar, and I’m blaming the cheap drinks promotion here, I ended up dancing next to him and we got close and sweaty, eventually both topless and chest-to-chest, then chest-to-back, then arse in groin; it was one of those totally hot, lustful, electric moments when it’s just the two of you and the music and your bodies, and nothing else matters, and no one else exists. It was only a matter of time before he was back at mine and we had picked up where we’d left off. Since leaving the club, though, the booze and euphoria had worn off slightly and his profession kept invading my mind, distracting me from what I really wanted to do to this hot young thing. By the time we were making out on my sofa, it was no good; was I just another client? Was business slow tonight so he was killing time? Was the meter running?! I wish rent boys were like taxis, and they had a little light that could be on when they’re ready to pick up, and off when they’re not working. It just wasn’t sexy anymore; I was using my head too much when I should be using lower parts. Things cooled, and he could sense it. We took a breather and hit the vodka; we seemed to be having the awkward, post-sex, sobered up drink without having the sex, the bit where you feel you should make conversation, when you just want to throw them out and get some sleep. I could tell he was puzzled by the lack of action and, feeling more upfront than I probably would be normally, I asked him how much he could normally make on a Saturday night. He looked startled for a minute and then asked how I knew. I said I’d seen his profile. Talk about making an awkward situation worse!
We sat there in silence for a minute before I found my mouth explaining that it wasn’t going to happen and I’d let him out, while the rest of me was desperate for a fuck. He looked hurt, but understanding, as if it’s not the first time. He was getting ready to leave and as quickly as the idea came to me, it was out in the open: I’d pay to fuck him. He stopped putting his jacket on and just said “okay” without any emotion. We went up to my room and I fucked his brains out; it was one of the best sex sessions I’ve ever had; he was one accommodating bottom: I fucked him every angle I could think of. I’d never paid for sex before, and I could spend hours analysing the experience and why it was so good, but the attitude it gives you of being completely selfish and not even considering the other guy’s enjoyment is very different. To be honest it wouldn’t have bothered me if he’d cum or not, although he did, which was quite satisfying. I wouldn’t make a habit of it, although I can imagine paying him for another session. It did answer one question though: now I know how much he can make on a Saturday night.
Pay for gay
What do you do when you discover that the object of your attention, slick dance moves, and ultimate flirting is a man of the night; working boy; escort; gigolo; hustler; rent boy; trade and all round cock-for-hire (apparently they are called ‘taxi boys’ in Argentina)? This is exactly the position I was one Saturday recently; the gorgeous young thing I had been parading my feathers for and who had shown some definite interest in me, I was reliably informed by my friend, is a prostitute and has a commercial profile on Gaydar; he also knows someone who’s paid for his services. I didn’t know whether to believe this as I’ve heard all sorts of things about various people on the scene over the years; favourite one was the guy who was rumoured to be a post-op female to male transsexual.
While we were at the bar and after this little revelation, the guy came over and started chatting. I wasn’t sure what to think now, I kept looking at him for giveaway signs – no barcode on the back of his head, or price tag on his flies; in fact there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary about him at all, you might even say he was surprisingly regular, very boy-next-door, well maybe boy-next-door-but-one; he spoke with fairly posh accent with a hint of public school about him. We chatted about the usual, although it wasn’t until later that I realised the conversation hadn’t come close to getting on to what he did for a living, the one question I was keen to ask; he’s probably very skilled in avoiding that one. He likes regular stuff, goes to the regular places and laughs in all the right places; oh and he’s fit too in a public schoolboy gone bad sort of way: you could tell he’s not a gym regular and isn’t out and about too much in daylight hours, due to his pale complexion, but you could also easily make out a nice slim body with a hint of pecs under his tight, green vest. Not sure about the cap though; guys with caps are usually hiding something, so I decided he was either ginger or curly; probably curly, he definitely wasn’t bald. Looked like he might be packing downstairs too. The best part of him, though, was his lips: gorgeous, pouting, juicy, kissable lips.
I liked this guy and we discussed what we were planning to do after the club. I told him my group were talking about heading on to a late bar and he said he might see us there. I hoped he would, but after that he was gone and I didn’t see him again that night. I thought about my friend’s little revelation and decided that if it were true, which it probably wasn’t, it must have been a one-time thing or maybe just a spell to get him through college. But, being human, I couldn’t resist checking on Gaydar when I got home, and there he was, openly advertising his services with his face on display along with the rest of him – I had a look at the restricted pics and I was right about him being blessed in the trouser department, as well as the curls. He wasn’t cheap, either and reckon he’d knocked a few years off his age.
So that was that: had a bit of a flirt with a nice young guy, didn’t have sex and it turns out he’s a rent boy. Or at least that was it until last weekend…
I noticed him while I was out clubbing in the same place. He was topless this time and strutting his stuff on the dancefloor. We made a few exchanges without acknowledging each other and I had no intention of making a move on him. However, after a few rounds at the bar, and I’m blaming the cheap drinks promotion here, I ended up dancing next to him and we got close and sweaty, eventually both topless and chest-to-chest, then chest-to-back, then arse in groin; it was one of those totally hot, lustful, electric moments when it’s just the two of you and the music and your bodies, and nothing else matters, and no one else exists. It was only a matter of time before he was back at mine and we had picked up where we’d left off. Since leaving the club, though, the booze and euphoria had worn off slightly and his profession kept invading my mind, distracting me from what I really wanted to do to this hot young thing. By the time we were making out on my sofa, it was no good; was I just another client? Was business slow tonight so he was killing time? Was the meter running?! I wish rent boys were like taxis, and they had a little light that could be on when they’re ready to pick up, and off when they’re not working. It just wasn’t sexy anymore; I was using my head too much when I should be using lower parts. Things cooled, and he could sense it. We took a breather and hit the vodka; we seemed to be having the awkward, post-sex, sobered up drink without having the sex, the bit where you feel you should make conversation, when you just want to throw them out and get some sleep. I could tell he was puzzled by the lack of action and, feeling more upfront than I probably would be normally, I asked him how much he could normally make on a Saturday night. He looked startled for a minute and then asked how I knew. I said I’d seen his profile. Talk about making an awkward situation worse!
We sat there in silence for a minute before I found my mouth explaining that it wasn’t going to happen and I’d let him out, while the rest of me was desperate for a fuck. He looked hurt, but understanding, as if it’s not the first time. He was getting ready to leave and as quickly as the idea came to me, it was out in the open: I’d pay to fuck him. He stopped putting his jacket on and just said “okay” without any emotion. We went up to my room and I fucked his brains out; it was one of the best sex sessions I’ve ever had; he was one accommodating bottom: I fucked him every angle I could think of. I’d never paid for sex before, and I could spend hours analysing the experience and why it was so good, but the attitude it gives you of being completely selfish and not even considering the other guy’s enjoyment is very different. To be honest it wouldn’t have bothered me if he’d cum or not, although he did, which was quite satisfying. I wouldn’t make a habit of it, although I can imagine paying him for another session. It did answer one question though: now I know how much he can make on a Saturday night.