I Had to Say Something (7 page)

“Let me massage you,” I told him softly. I then guided him onto the table and began our usual routine. Once again, he tried to perform oral sex but couldn't quite do it. No matter. I rubbed him down, flipped him over, and helped him ejaculate. That remained a regular part of our routine.

“Man, I like your chest,” he commented as he lay on his back, rubbing my pectoral muscles. “How did you get it so big and hard?”

I smiled and rubbed his thigh. “Do you want all the details?”

Art smiled and didn't say anything more. He didn't really want the details. Like someone on the first day at school or work, he was just making conversation. Even after a year of monthly visits he was still hesitant. He wanted to do more than touch me, to be sure. He wanted to make a connection. But he still wasn't sure how.

As usual, once he had his release, it took less than five minutes for him to get up, get changed, and be on his way. “I feel like I can trust you,” he told me that day as he handed me the
money. I didn't think much of his comment until the next time he came to visit.

 

Art's eyes were piercing, so much so that they sometimes felt like a needle sticking in me. His eyebrows told both of his pleasure and of his anticipation of where our adventures would take him. Sometimes his face signaled a heightened sense of pleasure. Sometimes his face showed fear, as though he were in need of being rescued.

“Are there still massage parlors?” Art asked as we played.

“Are you thinking of visiting one?” I asked. I wasn't trying to be mean, I just didn't know how to respond to what seemed like an odd question.

“Are there any swingers' hotels around here?”

Since he was seemingly in the mood to talk, I obliged him. “There's an interesting one farther down on East Colfax.”

Two Roman Catholic priests had hired me once for an afternoon of play at this gated establishment, where you were charged by the hour with no questions asked. I met these two men, both in their forties, inside the room, which was adorned in jungle red. There were mirrored ceilings, oversized beds, jungle gyms, harnesses, slings—and all kinds of toiletries in the bathroom to use before going to your next appointment. The two priests and I did little more than get naked and touch each other for mild stimulation. An hour later, it was over. I got paid, and I never saw either of them again.

“I think you'd enjoy it,” I offered. “Anything else you want to know, big boy?”

Art had a quizzical look on his face.
Oh dear
, I thought.
Was I about to become his sex therapist?

Before he could speak, I reached down and felt his erection. “Let's flip you over,” I said, hoping to steer him away from
whatever train of thought he was riding. I jacked him off, gave him a towel, and left him in the massage room by himself. He took a little longer than usual to get to the bathroom to change. Maybe he was thinking of trying other venues besides me.

 

Another time, Art sat on the couch after he arrived, watching my every movement.

“Wow!” he sighed, admiring my physique.

Wearing not a stitch of clothing, I stood in front of him and flexed every muscle. I did the classic bicep flex pose. I also did the “which way to the beach” pose. I clasped my hands together and pumped my arms for him.

“You look just like Arnold Schwarzenegger!” he said.

“How 'bout Charles Atlas?” I asked. I never thought Arnold was all that attractive.

I moved toward him and put my muscles—every muscle—right in his face. As usual, he didn't remove his clothes or touch himself while we were out in the living room. The most he would do was rub the crotch of his jeans.

“You like my big muscles, big boy?”

He smiled and replied, “I think I'm ready.” He got up and went to the massage room to get undressed. While I waited, I took a sip of water. Posing is hard work. Laying him on his back and jacking him off was much easier.

Waiting on the massage table, Art was chatty again.

“Have you ever had any strange requests?”

As I rubbed lotion on his back, I told him about this one guy who had a shoe fetish. “He said he was from Minnesota, and right in the middle of being naked, he said, ‘Hey, can I ask you something?' I said sure, so he asked me if I had a pair of cowboy boots and would I mind wearing them while I massaged him?

“Turns out, I did have a pair of black cowboy boots, so I put on a pair of socks and the boots, and there I was, buck naked, wearing just the boots and a smile.”

Art wasn't paying attention so I cut the story short.

“I get a lot of interesting requests,” I said. “If I can fulfill them, I do. If I can't, I say so.”

Art sighed as I rubbed his butt. “That's good to know,” he replied. Really, what could he possibly ask me that I hadn't already heard?

 

“Thank you, Mike,” Art said at the end of a different visit, just having finished doing what he came to do. Lying on his back, he very calmly looked up to the ceiling and said, “Hey, Mike, can I ask you something?”

I figured he wanted to try something a little kinkier, or maybe he had questions about HIV and STDs. If so, I was ready to refer him to some medical people I knew.

Imagine my surprise when Art asked calmly, “What do you know about meth?”

I wasn't prepared for that one. In all my years being an escort, I had never had anyone ask me about drugs. Sure, many men showed up obviously high, drunk, or tweaking. I suppose I shouldn't have been caught off guard, but Art seemed like such a clean-cut guy.

“It's not really my thing,” I replied, as calmly as I could, touching his arm.

“Really?” Art replied.

“I don't care for it personally, but I have friends that do it.” Oh boy, what have I gotten myself into?

“So you've done it?” he asked, with deep anticipation of my answer in his voice.

“Yes,” I replied, “a few times.” By this point, I'd known
Art for over a year, so I had no reason to think this was a setup, but that thought still goes through your mind when you're in the business. “Like I said, I didn't care for it.” I really wanted to emphasize that point to make sure he got it.

“Your friends, why do they like it?”

Is this guy really that naïve or is he fishing for something? “They say it enhances their sexual pleasure. I guess it just makes you less inhibited, especially if you are doing something you feel you shouldn't be doing.” Ouch, did I really say that to Art?

“Do you know where I can get some?” he asked.

I paused and thought a moment, nervously. “I don't deal, if that's what you're asking.” I had to get that in there, figuring that if there was a bug somewhere, that had better be part of the tape.

“I'd just like to try some.” I wondered where he got the idea that crystal meth would be worth trying. “Can you hook me up?”

Picture the best day of your life when everything is going right. You just hit the lottery, you just had a brand new beautiful baby, and nothing could seem better than that moment in life. That's what it can feel like the first time you use meth. It's a sex drug. It can make you feel euphoric or paranoid, energetic or sleep deprived, but its effect can go in either direction.

Methamphetamine doesn't occur naturally, like cocaine or marijuana. It's a synthetic nervous-system stimulant. For the casual user, it can enhance sexual pleasure, but for the addict, it can control and ruin lives.

I still had no reason to think this was a setup, but my instincts for self-preservation were kicking in hard. “I'll ask around,” I replied. “I'll see what I can do.” I had little interest
in pursuing his request. We were done for the day, so, as usual, he became silent, scurried to the bathroom with his clothes in hand, came out a few minutes later, paid me, kissed me on the cheek, and left.

It was true that I had tried meth and equally true that I didn't care for it. I was at a friend's house a few years back, and there were four of us who got naked and had fun. They had some meth and told me how it heightens the sexual experience, so I figured I'd try some. I enjoyed it for the first few hours. I experienced a type of euphoria that made me forget my problems and hang-ups.

It was great until I tried to go to sleep later that night and couldn't. In fact, because of the meth, I was awake for three days straight, no matter how hard I tried to collapse. You can imagine what a wreck I was when I finally did collapse. After that, I decided the temporary euphoria I got from meth wasn't worth the problems I would have days later.

I thought about telling Art this, but as with all my clients, I really felt it was not my concern, nor did I want to make it my concern.

Later that month, another client I had seen before called to book an appointment. I remembered from a previous conversation that he enjoyed meth. I had no reason to think he knew anything more about meth than using it occasionally, but I figured I'd ask. Perhaps I should have told Art no. Not that I would impose on anyone any of my own opinions of meth, but, God, what a hassle. Talk about going the extra mile for your clients!

So when my other client, let's call him Todd, arrived for his appointment, I waited until the end of the session to tell him about Art and his request. “If you don't mind, can I have him call you?”

“How long have you known this guy?” Todd asked pointedly.

“About a year. I believe he is trustworthy,” I assured Todd.

“Okay, then why don't you have Art call me, and I'll talk to him and see what we can do.” Todd added, “Tell him to make sure he mentions your name so I'll know who he is.”

I thanked Todd and he left.

The next time I saw Art, he barely got in the door and kissed me before asking, “Did you get any meth?” His eyes were wide, his brows were wider, and all his pearly whites and molars were on display. I couldn't believe how excited he was about getting started on this new adventure.

“Let me give you a phone number,” I said as I wrote Todd's number down on a sticky note and handed it to him.

Art's face suddenly went sour. “I thought you were going to have some here . . . today.” He wasn't mean about it, but he was starting to act like a disappointed child on Christmas.

“Art,” I said calmly, “I told you I don't deal in any kind of drugs.” Thinking in my usual cautious way, I added, “I don't have any drugs on me, and I don't keep any here at the house.” Sure, I was being overly cautious. But why take any chances?

Seeing the huge disappointment in his eyes, I felt I needed to turn his mood around—and quickly. “Let's watch some porn,” I said. Then I rubbed his hair playfully, just like a father would rub his son's head. “Now give Todd a call and see . . . see if he can help you, okay?”

The smile returned to Art's face as I guided him to the couch. I popped a DVD in the player, and we both sat down to watch
Bare Muscle: Thick and Raw
.

Art was beginning to take a shine to porn. He and I rubbed each other as we sat on the couch. He was still fully clothed, and I wore nothing but my gym shorts. As the action on-screen heated up, I could tell that Art was starting to loosen up, though he did say, “I sure would like to have some meth right now.” His obsession seemed odd because I was under the impression that he'd never tried it before, but maybe he had gotten a hold of some since then.

As soon as he was aroused, Art went to the massage room to get ready. I waited a few minutes, then took off my shorts and went in. I rubbed him all over, as usual.

The visit, however, was notable because he had difficulty reaching climax. I could tell he was trying, but no matter what he did, nothing seemed to be working. At one point, I could tell he had simply given up. His body dropped back into the massage table in frustration.

“It's okay, handsome,” I assured him.

He lay there in silence, angry at himself, but for what, I wasn't sure.

“Hey, Art, it's okay!”

Visibly rattled, Art hopped off the massage table without wiping himself off. As usual, he grabbed his clothes and ran to the bathroom. Before I could think of anything to say, he was out the door, with barely a good-bye or a thank you on the way out.

His next visit proved to be more challenging.

“Look what I have,” he said smiling, ecstatic beyond belief.

I couldn't believe it, really. There he was, barely inside my door, waving a small packet of what I assumed was meth.

“I can't wait to try this,” he said immediately, going for one
of the two chairs at my dining-room table. “How do you do this?”

You have got to be kidding
, I thought. I was truly starting to consider the possibility that I was being set up, but in this business your best gauge is your gut, and my gut was telling me that Art was still a harmless guy who knew so little about the world that he couldn't even figure out how to get high. I cleared my throat and took a seat across from him at my table.

“What do you mean, ‘how do you do this'?” I asked, carefully.

“How do you use this?” he asked again, opening the packet.

I was starting to get nervous. I never had any client use drugs in my presence, and I was getting very nervous about such an obvious display of meth, or whatever it was, right in my apartment. I still felt Art was harmless, but he was becoming more like one of those naïve and clumsy clients that can easily get you and everyone else into trouble.