A Consumer's Guide to Male Hustlers (8 page)

Nine years later, a chubbier, bearded, and bedraggled Roland greeted me with a broad smile, displaying a set of teeth sorely in need of dental care. His acne, like his youth, had disappeared. We had a brief chat. Roland was still hustling, obviously well-nourished and apparently in good health. Maybe it was not an ideal way to live, but, given his limitations, a means to survive! When Roland started hustling, at the age of eighteen, he was, in his own mind, an "in between" hustler. In his case, the "in between" became a permanent occupation.

Chapter 5

Three Kinds of Hustlers

In the beginning there was the street hustler.

Until very recently, both men and women walked the streets if they wanted to sell sex, unless they worked out of a bordello. Some twenty-five years ago the profession was "upgraded." Nowadays, there are three categories of hustlers: the street hustler, the masseur, and the "model" or "escort."

It would be more correct to call street hustlers "public hustlers." These are hustlers who conduct their business where they will be seen by prospective clients. It does not need to be in the street; it can be in a bar or a public building.

In the United States, hustlers usually operate in the streets, such as Polk Street in San Francisco and Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. Guys loitering in these locations will be recognized by prospective clients as hustlers. (Nowadays a homeless person may be mistaken for a hustler.)

In other countries, the street-hustling scene is more subdued. Brazen hustling may be better for business, but I suspect that many hustlers prefer to able to blend into the crowd when it suits them.

When I was last in Barcelona, in 1988, there was a brisk hustling scene in all the gay baths. One could not make any assumptions about who was a hustler. The cutest young guy in the baths turned out to be in the "mili" (doing his national service in the military), and though he hung out with the other hustlers he was not one himself. Hustlers in Barcelona's baths could blend into the general population if needed. For instance, they might run into a friend who did not know about their hustling.

In Manila, a favorite hustling spot is the Harrison Shopping Plaza. The whole plaza is air-conditioned. In torrid Manila, it is a wonderful place to hang out for anyone who wants to escape the heat and do window shopping. A hustler could run into his grandmother there, without giving away his secret.

In Zurich, hustlers ply their business at the Bahnhof—the central railway station. The Bahnhof is an important commercial center, with many shops and restaurants, as well as a major street-car terminal. It is crowded day and night. It is also a cruising place. Being seen there by friends and relatives would not embarrass a hustler.

Whether the scene is strident or subdued, a hustler working in public is known to his peers, and to the police, if they want to take notice of it. All too often, hustlers fight with each other over territory, drugs, boyfriends, unpaid debts, and so on, or are being harassed by the police. Like female streetwalkers, they also attract a lunatic fringe that is out to inflict physical harm on them.

A lot of bad stuff, with no rhyme or reason, just happens on the street. For instance, I once made a date with Ricky, a hustler whom I had met a few evenings earlier. I was supposed to pick him up at 6 p.m., not far from his street corner. When he did not show up, I parked the car and went cruising on Polk Street. Some ten minutes later I ran into Ricky. "Hey, you stood me up," I said.

"The cops took me to the police station," he said. "Look at my wrists, you can still see the marks of the handcuffs."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"So why did they take you in?"

"Because they are assholes, that's why." He took out a piece of paper. It stated that he had been detained and released with no charges pressed. All in all, he was run in and released in less than an hour.

What was that all about? Periodically, the police come under pressure from merchants to do
something
about hustlers, who block store entrances and are rowdy. In response, the police arrest and charge a number of hustlers, cite others, and harass the rest of them. In the end, it does not change anything. Hustling has been going on in San Francisco since the Gold Rush days and maybe even before that. But the police, like the hustlers and their clients, need to play out their respective roles.

Because life on the street is so unpredictable, street hustlers find it difficult to make any commitments for anything but the immediate present. They may not be able to get any sleep on a particular night and therefore may not show up for a job the next morning; they have difficulties keeping dates made for a specific time on a subsequent day because they may be turning a trick then; they cannot be reached by phone because they do not have one. Many, by no means all, are forever missing their IDs, losing their house keys, and being denied access to their belongings.

If they are full-time hustlers it is next to impossible for them to avoid drugs. Drug deals are made in front of them all the time; clients offer the stuff to them; almost everybody around them is high on something or crashing because something they took is wearing off. And then, of course, there is alcohol.

Yet, more than once, I have heard full-time hustlers describe life on the street as "glamorous." Glamorous? Well, yes, in a strange way. On this very night they might meet a famous actor in Hollywood, an important muck-a-muck in Washington, DC, or a fabulously rich man in New York City. They may be picked up by a gorgeous hunk, have wild sex with lots of cocaine thrown in, or be fussed over and spoiled by a lonely old man who falls in love with them. Such things happen once in a blue moon—but happen they do!

Then there is the freedom of the street. Even though this freedom is mostly illusory, hustlers bask in it. They can sleep until noon, not keep the date they had made the previous day because they already have all the money they need at the moment, and spend their last penny on an expensive trinket they will never use.

There is no neat division between full-time and part-time hustlers.
¹
The part-timers are simply hustlers who have a steady source of income not generated by hustling. Many of the part-timers receive (at least prior to the Welfare Reform Act of 1996) welfare assistance, food stamps, or SSI funds. The rest hold some type of a job, and hustle for extra income. Since their exposure to the street is limited, and their living conditions much more stable, they have more control of their lives.

¹
. In theory, full-time street hustlers should not be lumped with part-timers. In practice, the situation on the street is too fluid to make rigid distinctions between these two categories. All too often, a hustler will fall out of favor with his social worker, for a real or imaginary infraction of the rules. By a stroke of a pen, the part- timer loses his status as welfare recipient and becomes a full-timer. A month later, with the benefits restored, he reverts to a being part-timer. This sort of thing can happen on a monthly basis.

Curiously, in very poor countries street hustlers are more likely to have a permanent home of sorts, however poor they are. Renting hotel rooms by the night or by the week are not viable options for them. They are much more careful about not losing their housing, abysmal as it may be, because it is irreplaceable. For a description of such living conditions see
Philippine Diary: A Gay Guide to the Philippines
, Joseph Itiel (San Francisco: International Wavelength, 1989), p. 50.

This control is usually related to their relatively stable living conditions. Street hustlers (at least in the United States) tend to move from one slum hotel to the next, renting rooms by the night or the week. (The smarter ones, if they have the money, pay by the month.) To meet the rent deadline (which always seems to be tomorrow at noon!) full-time hustlers must turn tricks now. The hustlers' tension, when trying to clinch the sale in order to pay the rent, spooks some clients. The part-time hustlers, with a secure living place, have an easier time of it.

For many other reasons, part-time hustlers tend do better on the street than the full timers. They are cleaner, more relaxed, and they are in a position to make and keep future appointments with their clients. Eventually, with enough regulars, they do not need to spend much time on the street. The greatest achievement of street hustlers is to become part-time hustlers.

Without permanent living quarters, full-time hustlers are without a phone and a mailing address. This makes it all but impossible for them to find a job even if they want to do so. If they somehow manage to find one, they have tremendous difficulties in coordinating their erratic hustling hours with their job schedule.

I have known a lot of hustlers who received some sort of welfare. The "elite" manage to receive SSI, almost always for being mentally ill. Their mental condition is usually not reflected in their sexual performance. The following anecdote is a good illustration.

I met Peter when he was twenty-eight years old. He was an ethnic mixture of Native American, Filipino, and African, and was very handsome. Unfortunately, he had a sweet tooth, and was on his way to becoming seriously chubby. I liked him for his cheerful disposition and for his lustful, yet gentle and caring, sexuality. He reminded me of the hippies of yore, always speaking of love and peace, and using expressions like "groovy." Though he was a street hustler, sometimes even homeless, he was quite good about keeping appointments. I knew he did a lot of drugs but that was usual for a guy in his circumstances.

One day he called me from the psychiatric ward of San Francisco General. He begged me to visit him there. As soon as I was let through the security door, Peter grabbed me and, kissing me passionately, waltzed me into a private visiting cubicle. I was somewhat embarrassed by the spectacle we made, but, after all, it was a mental ward where patients were expected to behave strangely. In a psychiatric ward, being kissed by Peter was not the worst thing that could have happened to me. Later, I found out from the nurse that I was his only visitor. Apparently, he tried to show the other patients that he, too, had friends.

He had been committed for observation. A few days earlier, under the influence of drugs, he had disturbed the peace by yelling at passers-by, including a police sergeant. He was released after a few days. During our next sex session he was even more passionate than before. Maybe this was his way of repaying me for my visit.

A month later, he wound up at the hospital once again. This time, as a condition for not pressing charges or committing him, he had to agree to live in a halfway house for nine months. I would pick him up there between his three mandatory daily meetings. "What happens at these meetings?" I asked.

"We talk about not using."

"Not using what?"

He was surprised by my lack of worldliness. "Drugs, Joseph!"

"What else do you talk about?"

"What else is there to talk about?"

"The future. Didn't you tell me once that you had never held a job? What happens once you are out on your own?"

"Well, all they talk about is not using, even if you feel like using."

"Don't they try to teach you a skill you can use after the program is over?"

"No, Joseph! We just talk about not using. How we have low self-esteem because we use. How we screw up our lives because we use."

I felt that Peter was somewhat exasperated with my questions about the future.

For a while, Peter was on antipsychotic medication. As a side effect, he was unable to climax. This depressed him, though it did not affect his horniness. When he was with me, he appeared completely sane.

But now that he had fallen into the hands of the psychiatric profession, he spun the web that would allow him to trap the biggest catch of all: SSI benefits for the rest of his life! He accomplished his goal in just six months. From then on, his living and medical expenses would be covered by the state, and his hustling money would go for drugs. He deserted the halfway house and moved to

San Diego. I lost touch with him. Mostly likely, he is still collecting his benefits, hustling, and using drugs.

What many street hustlers sorely lack are skills that would help them find regular jobs. Merely teaching them how "not to use" leaves them no choice but to go back to the one skill they do have. Once they go back to hustling they will "use," because that is the way things are on the street. The drug-related SSI just assures them of a small pension for the rest of their lives.

Two observations based solely on my own experiences: First, there is absolutely no connection between a hustler's diagnosed mental condition and his sexual performance and, indeed, his ability to conduct his sex business. Second, the crazier the hustler, the less likely he is to collect benefits. My only explanation for this phenomenon is that social workers prefer working with pleasant clients, and leave the really crazy ones to fend for themselves.

* * *

I know quite a bit about the massage business from both the client's and the masseur's point of view. Once, for a period of some six months, I had a housemate who made his living as a masseur. He was from Mexico, and, in the beginning, hardly spoke any English. I was often called in to interpret during phone negotiations. After giving a massage, he would share his experiences with me. But before discussing masseurs, let me start with a brief historical overview.

When I was a student in New York City, in the 1950s, I was friends with a young woman who studied Swedish massage. I remember that she had to know a lot of anatomy, and that she apprenticed in a hospital. When she graduated, she ran an ad in the yellow pages, advertising her services as a Swedish masseuse. All of the callers were men, and most of them wanted some sort of sex. The one or two clients she did see, harassed her. After a few months she changed her telephone number and gave up her business.