Retrospective

… My career as a rentboy started at my own yard sale.

Sometimes I think nostalgically about the odd belongings I liquidated that day —the gifts from ex-boyfriends, the stretched out t-shirts and the grunge-era music magazines —but it’s reassuring to know that other people are enjoying these things now.

However, it was likely my final sale that made the buyer the happiest.

I had already decided to enter the sex trade, but I hadn’t started to advertise. It’s not like my sale was a flop and I needed to resort to desperate measures. I was just in salesman mode, and I could tell what this guy really wanted to take home…

… At first, I escorted because it seemed rebellious, sexually adventurous, and provocative. I also wanted to bring respect to the profession, change attitudes and in turn change laws, and maybe save lives. I was cutting edge and standing up to a whole new set of sexual taboos. I felt like a maverick…

… Then it hit me. Oh fuck. This guy is a Republican. For the first time since I became an escort, I had a moral crisis.

My logic went that if I put his dick in my mouth, I would be supporting the most destructive and corrupt administration in American history. My cock shrivelled up and my asshole slammed shut…

… A year ago, when I first started escorting, a guy hired me because he said he “wanted a professional.”

Talk about putting on the pressure. He might as well have said he wanted someone with severe performance anxiety.

Me, a professional? It’s not like I’ve had any specialized training or went through a degree program…

… There was the guy with a cock so big that he used a female condom. Naturally, I gave him a free session. He gave me a copy of the Shortbus soundtrack in return. He was boyfriend material, but I wasn’t his Pretty Woman…

… As I stood on his welcome mat, I recognized this as a pivotal moment. In one hour, I would be an official card-carrying man-whore.

There was no fooling myself into thinking that there wouldn’t be some baggage attached to my status and identity as a rentboy. It could be hard to ignore all of the people that might write me off as a repulsive, drug-addicted, emotionally fucked piece of trash.

But when that first client opened the door and greeted me with a bright and eager smile, I remembered the lesson I’d learned that day. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.