When I was a scared and stupid college student, I took a lot of shit clients

* make us famous

Using misery to obviate shame, probably. 

This one was very young, which set me off. Late teens to early 20s. Bony, huge raw cheekbones, translucent hair. I outweighed him for sure. He paid close attention to my body as I walked in and settled on the bed, judging my looks prior to paying. I am not offended by this: indeed it’s the only context in which I find such a gaze acceptable.  This sort of man tends to feel indignant about inhibition and self consciousness though, which feels like a set up.

He laid the money out. I had been hoping he would reject me so I could get out of there. Very young clients have been either aspie or slight sociopaths, some of them virgins. It takes a lot of despair to lose your cherry to a prostitute and what fun is despair without a frosting of rage? He didn’t want to chat and asked for a back massage. Now I was afraid AND annoyed. I am paid by the hour but only because otherwise I’m guilty of a crime. I don’t want to clean your house or walk your dog or any other little tasks you can think up to get your money’s worth. 

I ungracefully straddled his slender ass and started rubbing. I can’t remember what we talked about but I remember he was curt and by the time he turned over I was fully in the moment, alert to sudden movement, in deep controlled fear. I imagined him trying to talk to his college classmates, how his shoot-up-the-school intensity would play with the cool kids and the pretty girls, everyone pretending to be lighthearted.  

The sex was brief. I was definitely an employee. He was very specific about what he wanted and how. He made very little noise. When it was over I asked if I could take a shower. He said he would too.

In the bathroom it all came out. He was an escort also, for men, but was only marginally gay. Sometimes he needed a hetero experience. My relief was explosive and I lost all my cool. I tried to talk shop; asked how much he made, how he got his dick hard. I asked a few non-direct questions about how the hell he managed, whether it was scary. He told me that when he needed to reward himself he bought kitchenware. We discussed silicone baking liners, Le Creuset. His intensity had just been confidence, because he was beautiful.  I was isolated then in a way that the internet has made impossible: secretive, always exhausted and scared of exposure. Naked under a towel, ungainly next to his slick body, I felt desperately hungry for a friend. I asked for his number and he refused me kindly. I felt embarrassed, got dressed and left.