After you’ve been in the sex business a while, clients start falling into types: the closeted married guys, hungry for a good fucking but heavily invested in privacy; the anxious first-timers who create grand sexual fantasies that are impossible to live up to; the busy professionals, fed up with seeking fulfilment online And then you have what I like to call The Miserable Old Bastard. MOB for short.
Like each strain you learn to recognize, the MOB is marked by a set of distinguishing traits. He lives in a small, cluttered apartment, which he’s been renting for decades. He works in the same menial job most of his life. He rarely leaves the house, unless he’s going to work, buying groceries, visiting the doctor or renting porn (because he still does that).
He’s politically conservative, complaining about greedy immigrants, over-paid trash collectors, and lazy youth. He’ll proudly tell you about yelling at unsuspecting teenagers for having their feet on the seats in the metro or lecturing a panhandler to get some decent clothes and a job. And while he’s the antithesis of everything you want to be, he’s also one of your most faithful long-term clients.
The MOB isn’t rich. But his less than lavish lifestyle means he has considerable cash to spend on boys. He’s highly unlikely to take you to dinner. But you can often count on him booking an hour of your time each week. However reprehensible you find his politics, if you can learn to stomach them, you’re going to be spending a lot of time together, often over a span of years if he takes a particular shine to you.
The other unique characteristic of the MOB is that he’s most often gotten this far in life without having had a meaningful long-term relationship. He probably knew he was gay from a young age, but managed to avoid marriage despite familial or societal pressures. He probably made use of saunas or strip clubs at some point, but can’t be bothered any longer. He may have dated some guys, possibly in long-distance arrangements. But his curmudgeonly temperament and cynical nature have kept him from realizing a meaningful bond with another living being, except possibly a cat or dog.
When the subject of his isolation comes up (which it eventually will if you end up seeing him regularly) he’ll say relationships are a waste of time, that gay men are just as bad as everything else in the world, and he’d rather be at home with his TV and a glass of bourbon. But as you get to know him, the softer sides start to squish through the cracks in his hard exterior. Although he’s loath to admit it, you eventually realize despite his near universal condemnation of humanity, the MOB is profoundly and intensely lonely.
I’ve had ongoing relationships with several MOBs. But the first — one of my first clients in fact — was an MOB who went by the name of Russell. The first time he calls me, he’s cautious but to the point, asking for my rate and whether I’m available that night. I press him about what he wants but he doesn’t give much detail. So I take his address, toss my usual collection of odds and ends in my bag, and head out the door.
He lives in a north-end highrise. When I buzz him on the intercom, he responds with the apartment number, adding an oddly polite “come up please”. Finding his door slightly ajar, I knock and he responds from inside, inviting me in with another “please” stamped at the end. I step in and survey the room. There’s a large TV in the corner, playing what I’m pretty sure based on the resolution is a VHS tape of two very young-looking boys licking each other’s asses.
There are cabinets filled with ceramic figures, some of the standard Victorian-era ladies in ball gowns, as well as a collection of dogs, all of which appear to be corgis. There’s a bookshelf jammed with westerns and a copy of the King James Bible. On top, sits a double cassette deck surrounded by tapes, mainly classical with a handful of Barbra and Celine sprinkled in. A heavy cloud of smoke hangs in the air.
It’s not immediately obvious where my host is, but he calls from around the corner for me to join him. I lock the door behind me, ditch my shoes and walk further into the living room. As I pass the kitchen, I find a portly gentleman in a bathrobe with carefully coiffed hair seated at a lace-covered table, puffing on a cigarette.
He looks me up and down and smiles. “Why don’t you get more comfortable and join me?” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
I drop my jeans, pull my t-shirt slowly over my head, and gradually peel my underwear down. I learned early on not to rush this process. People love watching whores get undressed. I join him at the table and he asks what I want to drink, listing a variety of options, before I settle on a beer. He waddles to the kitchen, returning with a can of Budweiser and a chilled mug from the freezer.
As we chat, I learn he’s been working in customer service his whole life, which explains his overpowering politeness. He’s not yet 60 but already eligible to claim a pension from his company since he’s been there since his late teens. “I can’t wait for the day I finally walk out,” he says. “I’m tired of having to leave the house every morning. I just want to settle in here and wait for the end.”
By “the end” I’m assuming he means death, so I shift the conversation to work-hell stories. I spent much of my youth in miserable retail jobs, so I’ve got endless anecdotes about obnoxious customers and dictatorial managers. He responds by recounting how he told off his co-worker earlier that week, “a German bitch with a fat ass.”
I try to avoid obviously watching the time during a session. But the brass and glass clock in the china hutch indicates we’ve eaten up nearly 30 minutes of our hour. I give my dick a quick fluff under the table, stand and walk towards him, a smile tugging at my lips.
“Enough about what you hate,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me what you like?”
I stand in front of him, my dick hanging semi-hard, peel his bathrobe open and start to play with his nipples.
“Let’s move a little closer to the entertainment,” he says, gesturing to the TV where a new crop of boys are fucking each other in a clumsy daisy chain.
He stands, takes five steps toward the recliner positioned in front of the screen, and drops his ample frame back down. I’m not clear on exactly what he wants to happen, so I just kneel between his legs, run my hands up and down his thighs and start sucking his cock.
“Tell me how you like that prick,” he says. “I love it when boys talk dirty . . .”
devondelacroix@gmail.com
(photo by Tony Fong)
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