A Consumer's Guide to Male Hustlers (5 page)

I know personally one of the advertisers in the above sample. He is a part-time hustler. Recently, he was very proud when he obtained a data-input job at $12 per hour, a $4 raise from his previous work. The job involves a one-hour commute each way, with a schedule that ruins both his days and evenings, and robs him of his weekends. As a hustler he works out of his home, is picked up by his clients, or is given cab fare. He charges somewhere between $75 and $100 for about an hour of his time. Often clients add a tip.

A fair and
very
generous compensation for his services, based on what he can he earn at a regular job, would be $25. Throw in another $5 to cover his ad and phone expense, and make it $30. He would be delighted to make that much money at any part-time job, except when working as a hustler. The markup is a compensation for the imputed degradation of male prostitution, to make it "worth his while." Miraculously, at $100 per session, the "degradation" of prostitution becomes a yuppie "modeling" or "escorting" job.
¹⁰

10. Hiring hustlers anywhere in the world, whether hustling there is legal, illegal, or in legal limbo, is never an inexpensive proposition. I suspect that it is the nature of the profession, not its legal status, that allows hustlers to charge as much as they do.

Chapter 3

Hustling—A Vocation?

In the late 1970s, an enterprising San Franciscan came up with a neat idea. He would go through the hustlers' ads in the gay papers, make anonymous dates with the advertisers, and rate their services by awarding them stars. He called his publication
David's World
. For a while, some San Francisco hustler ads would state: "* * * in
David's World
." Few ads displayed four stars—the highest possible ranking. And, needless to say, no hustler advertised a low ranking in
David's World
. Most displayed three stars.

Alfonso, a model, told me about the rating method, after he himself had gone through the interview. To attain a four-star rating a hustler had to be reasonably attractive, well-groomed, have a pleasant personality, and live in a presentable environment. He also had to be able to perform adequately the following tasks: make good body contact, be willing to screw and be screwed, blow, and French kiss. Alfonso, who did not get screwed by clients, earned three stars.

I relate this story to make the point that hustling is not a passive activity, in which the client does all the work, hands over money, and departs.

It is not even that simple when, one would assume, this is all the action the script dictates. For instance: a hustler, in drag, will be picked up by a "straight" client who, presumably, wants to have sex with a man while fantasizing that he is screwing a woman. What the client
really
wants is to be screwed by the female impersonator. This sort of thing happens even more frequently in Latin American countries where machismo is the name of the game.
¹

¹
. In my guidebook to Costa Rica, I summarize an interview with male prostitutes in drag. One of them describes how many of her "straight" customers want her to reverse roles.
Pura Vida: Gay and Lesbian Costa Rica
, Joseph Itiel (San Francisco: Orchid House, 1993), p. 97.

Because hustling is not merely a passive activity, the hustler needs to provide much more than just a receptive ass. To screw, he needs to have an erection. Some customers will insist that the hustler jack himself off and ejaculate while they are watching him. Others will insist that he go down on them. These activities may have to be performed even when the hustler is not the least bit attracted to his client.

For a hustler to be even moderately successful, having a pretty face and muscular body is neither necessary nor sufficient to guarantee success. Every time a hustler has sex with a new client he is confronted with a novel physical and psychological challenge. In spite of what society at large thinks about male prostitution, and how hustlers themselves might regard it, hustling is not just a job to make ends meet, but, rather, a vocation for which one must have a calling. By "calling" I mean natural skill and intuition, and the ability to learn from experience.

Of course hustling is about money—but there is a lot more to it. In the next chapter I will discuss the various reasons why a young (and quite often not-so-young) man chooses to become a hustler. While the reasons are complex and even convoluted the calling always needs to be there.

To illustrate my point, and put a human face on this theory, I will tell the story of my six-year affair with one hustler.

MAESTRO JED'S STORY

I met Jed in the summer of 1979 when hustlers still stood at the back of the St. Francis Hotel at Geary and Powell in San Francisco. Jed was twenty-three years old, slender, and of medium height. He had large green eyes, with long eyelashes, jet-black hair, and a remarkably large Adam's apple. I have heard it said that men with large Adam's apples are well-endowed, and that Jed certainly was. He was also one of those lucky guys who have an athletic build without having to work for it—broad-shouldered, with a slender waist, and a tight abdomen. Jed's skin was a bit on the tan side. He was the son of a German woman and a Hispanic man from New Mexico. Jed's father was probably a mixture of Native American, Mexican, and Spanish. Jed's facial features were a blend of his European lineage, and what Mexicans call
La Raza
—the ethnic blend of the New World.

I have shown Jed's (clothed) photos to many people. They almost always refer to him as "very sexy" and then invariably ask, "Is he well hung?" Nobody ever calls him handsome.

My first time with Jed was awkward. In the car he spoke little and did not make much sense. For such an indecisive person, he had a surprisingly assertive baritone voice. But he spoke very little. By the time we got home I thought of him as somewhat "slow," which made me feel better than classifying him as retarded.

As soon as we hit the bed I forgot all about his "slowness." Jed and I had already agreed on what type of sex we would have. But it is more fun if both parties enjoy the session. I asked Jed, "What do you like to do?" to which he replied, "I like to please."

Jed was versatile (by choice, I suspect, more bottom than top), knew intuitively how to turn me on, and seemed immensely pleased by whatever I did to him. It gave me the impression that the way we had sex was exactly what he had always wanted to do. He came abundantly just a few seconds before I climaxed. If he faked his own enjoyment, he was a very great actor!

In view of his brilliant bedroom performance I was willing to overlook his social ineptness. I asked him whether he would like to see me again but he was so uncommunicative that I gave up on him.

A few months later, I was at the Liberty baths. It was one of those nights when all the planets were aligned in the wrong positions. I was shunned and despised by everyone. Whomever I tried to approach fled in horror. Then I saw Jed.

He remembered me, and greeted me in a friendly manner. Naturally, I asked Jed whether he would come to my cubicle. "Maybe later," he said. "Or, maybe not. I am not having fun. I have been here for a long time. I might just leave."

I knew that on that particular night I would not score at the steam bath. I could hardly afford the expense of the admission to the bathhouse plus Jed's fee, but I justified it by telling myself that it would be good for my mental health. I asked Jed, "Why don't we leave together and go to my place? We'll work out the finances later."

"OK, if you want to," he said without much enthusiasm.

When we reached my home Jed asked, "Do you have any drugs?"

"No."

"Not even some pot?"

"No, Jed. I don't do drugs at all."

He seemed disappointed. However, now that he knew my sexual likes and dislikes, he surpassed his previous performance. I was sure that he had had some fun previously at the bath because he was completely spent after he climaxed. "You tired me out," he complained.

He saw a large package on the living room floor. "What's this?" he asked.

I had bought a folding door for the kitchen a few days earlier. "I'm looking for a handyman to install this door."

"I am a handyman."

"You are? This is what you do for a living?"

"No, I am a singer. But I know how to fix stuff."

"Where do you sing?"

"I do gigs here and there."

"Have you had any training?"

"Oh, I had a scholarship as a child at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music."

I had doubts about Jed's singing or mechanical abilities. He still seemed "slow" to me, at least out of bed. On the other hand, I wanted to get to know him better.

We agreed on a fee for his work and he promised to come by on Saturday, at 9 a.m. sharp, to install the door. He arrived at about eleven in the morning. To my surprise, he carried a toolbox.

Rapidly, without any fuss, he installed the door. I was impressed.

"How about us meeting on Monday night?" I asked.

"What for?"

"For sex."

"I don't like to make appointments. I'll give you my telephone number. Call me sometime."

It took two weeks for me to get hold of Jed. On two consecutive days, I spoke to two roommates who promised to give Jed my messages. On the third day, a mysterious woman answered and assured me that no Jed lived at that number. Then the telephone was "temporarily disconnected," probably for not paying the bill. When I finally reached Jed we made an appointment for that evening. He would meet me at Castro and 18th Street, at the bus stop, at 7 p.m. "sharp."

Those were the good days in San Francisco. Nowadays, you get a $250 ticket for just
thinking
about parking in a bus zone. Then, one could get away with it. Still, I felt uncomfortable waiting for Jed well over twenty minutes right in the bus zone. When I scolded him for being late, he dismissed my reproof by saying, "I had to get a bite to eat. I have not eaten all day long. I showed up, didn't I?"

At home he asked me once again for drugs. Again, I told him that I did not do drugs. It took quite a few meetings before Jed believed that I did not do any drugs. Once, probably to test me, he brought some cocaine and offered to share it with me. "No, Jed, I really don't do drugs and I prefer not having them at my house."

"You're not much fun," he commented.

After a few sexual encounters, I was certain that if I saw Jed every few days for the rest of my life, I would not want or need any additional sex partners. Had Jed asked me to become monogamous with him I would have gladly agreed. Since I had become a "regular" we worked out a low fee of $25 per session. Nevertheless, always paying for sex would have amounted to a lot of money.

I did not need to worry. I never saw Jed in any pattern. He would move without giving me a new phone number, or do a gig out of town, or forget to show up when we made a date. I overlooked all of this because our sexual sessions were so intense.

All told, I had sex with Jed close to 200 times. Our sexual encounters ranged from very good to excellent. In spite of Jed's moodiness and his apparent disinterest in me as a person, not once did he falter in his performance. I am big on affection and kissing, and I got this in great abundance from Jed. He never made me feel that I was imposing on him sexually; but almost always he conveyed to me that I made unreasonable demands upon his time. Making appointments was a burden to him. The way he wanted things done was to call me when it suited his mood and needs. I would have to drive to his place, wait until he got ready, bring him to my home, and return him to base when we were done.

Jed did some New Wave gigs out of town and sometimes even got paid well. I know this to be true because I saw some of the programs, and helped him cash his checks. Apparently, he had some connections in the music field. But nothing permanent ever came of it.

He treated hustling like all his other temporary jobs. He had them for a while, lost them for not showing up, then tried something else. Once, he told me that he would place an ad in the paper and hustle out of his home. I felt threatened by it. Jed would have been entitled to charge a small fortune for each encounter, and would not need to bother with clients like me who were on a tight budget. I did not need to worry. Even if he had gotten around to writing the ad, paying to run it, acquiring an answering machine, and waiting for calls, Jed would not have kept his appointments with his clients. The reason that we saw so much of each other was due to my persistence. I never got tired of having sex with Jed, and grudgingly put up with his flakiness.

Over the years, we had our emotional ups and downs, though the sexual chemistry between us never changed. (The worse Jed's mood, the better was his sexual performance!) We were often displeased with each other: I, because Jed would be late or stand me up, or just be morose and in a bad mood; Jed, because I would fuss over inconsequential matters like being stood up. From time to time, he would borrow money from me, and was upset because I wanted to pin him down regarding an exact day and time for our next date.

But we also had good times. One summer we went to Guerneville, on the Russian River. We stayed at the Willows, a gay, rustic hotel overlooking the river. We spent most of the day on the river and I taught Jed to paddle and steer the canoe. At long last, Jed discovered that I had a useful skill I could impart to him. As soon as we changed and went out for dinner, guys started hitting on Jed. We had already decided beforehand that we would have sex after we ate and then Jed would go about town. "I can always score drugs in Guerneville. Dudes just offer them to me," he assured me.

Sex was wonderful that evening. I was content with our sexual session, and with not needing to fend off Jed's many suitors. He went out just before eleven. A few minutes later it started raining very heavily, the last thing one expects at the Russian River in August. I had not let Jed use my car. He knew how to drive, but, naturally, did not have a valid license. Even if he had a valid license, I would not have allowed him to use my car because of his drug activities.