What a trick wants (Part 1)

Creatively activating a client’s deepest fantasies

People sometimes ask me what the worst kind of client is. The ones who call you wasted at two in the morning are near the top of the list. The guys with cheesy dicks and terrible breath can be difficult to take. Toothy blowjobs are tricky, as are dirty assholes. But of all the types you come across in the sex business, the most annoying ones are the guys who can’t actually tell you what they want.

It’s a strange thing when you think about it. You wouldn’t go into a restaurant and just tell them to bring you whatever food they felt like. You wouldn’t get a haircut without a telling the stylist what you’re after. You wouldn’t go to a doctor and say you’re sick but refuse to share any symptoms. But this tactic of feigning complete ignorance when asked about desires is an oddly common occurrence among those who buy sex.

Obviously, I’m invested both economically and professionally in doing a good job. I want to give a client the exact service he’s looking for, in part because I want him to come back. If he wants me to bottom, I want to know beforehand so I can douche. If he wants piss, I should plan to stop for a beer on the way there. And despite the ultra-slut image I try to convey, I’m not actually strolling around town with a backpack full of leather gear and restraints, so it’s good to know if I’m supposed to bring them.

What I’ve gradually realized over the years is that when guys don’t want to talk in advance of meeting, it’s usually because they’re super shy about sharing their desires. They’re embarrassed, confused or fearful, sometimes because they’ve had very few sexual experiences or because they’ve put their desires on the table before and have been soundly rejected. It’s not necessarily that they’re into anything that kinky; they’ve just never learned how to articulate what they need.

My initial conversation with Mike has precisely this kind of frustrating secrecy. I’m staying in Montreal when I get an email from him, saying he’d like me to come to his hotel for three hours that night. It’s a long commitment with no game plan, so I dig a little deeper. “What are you looking for?” I write back. “Just a good time,” he replies.

This conversation goes back and forth for about 15 messages and I’m no closer to knowing anything about him. But a three hour trick is a three hour trick, so I take his room number, douche my ass, and throw a jockstrap, some ropes, a bottle of massage oil, latex gloves and a pair of handcuffs in my backpack.


Having planned for nearly all possible contingencies, I hop on my bike and boot it to his hotel. He’s a big guy: chubby, but also tall, with scraggly blond hair in a messy comb-over and Coke-bottle glasses. He invites me to sit on a floral-printed couch with cigarette burns across the arms. There’s a plastic ice bucket with bottles of Molson Canadian on the table. He opens one for himself and indicates I should do the same.

I’ve been in some pretty sleazy hotel rooms in my life, but this one is definitely near the top of the list. It probably hasn’t been redecorated since the early ’80s and is showing its age, both in terms of style as well as by the various stains, scratches and burns dotted across the furniture and the carpet. The bathroom has a Jacuzzi tub —that I can see it because it’s separated only by a clear glass partition with a few flecks of imitation gold leaf criss-crossing it.

I still have no idea why I’m here, so I try a little small talk. I find out he’s visiting from New York, that he works in some kind of importing business and that he loves French food. He doesn’t have a ring on his finger, so I don’t know if he’s married, but he definitely gives off serious closet vibes. He travels a lot for work and we compare notes on our favourite destinations, which airlines we hate and what we like to say to border agents.

The clock radio next to the bed indicates that nearly an hour has passed and we’ve yet to even touch, so I ease a little closer to him and run my fingers down his arm.

“So,” I say. “You never told me what you were into.”

“Well, what do you like?” he shoots back,

“I’m a full service operation,” I purr. “If there’s anything you want to do, just ask. I’ll probably say yes.”

“Yeah, but what do you like?” he says.

This goes on for another few minutes before I finally suggest I give him a massage, for lack of any better ideas. I find if you can just get them naked, you can wing the rest. And if he pays me for three hours and I don’t do anything besides rub his back, that’s fine too.

I lay out some pillows and towels on the bed, instruct him to strip and lie face down with his hands at his sides and his feet pointing towards the headboard. I ditch my shirt and my jeans, leaving my underwear on. I approach the bed and place my hands on his shoulders. He instantly grasps my thighs — not sensually, but more like he’s holding on for balance. I run my fingers up and down his back, easing the knots out of his muscles. As I brush the top of his ass, he squirms and lets out a little moan. Okay, bottom. At least that’s one part of the mystery solved.

“You like that?” I say, my fingers sliding between his buttocks.

“Oh yeah,” he says, his voice elevating slightly.

Responding to his cue, I drop my tone an octave.

“You wanna get that ass fucked?”

“Oh yes,” he says again, his voice arcing higher.

“You gonna be a good boy for me?”


Now that I have a good sense of where this is going, I decide to toss out some clearer ideas.

“You gonna be a good boy . . . for daddy?” I say.

A slight shiver runs through his body, like he’s seen a ghost.

“Yes, daddy,” he says . . .

Part 2 >>


Devon Delacroix is a writer, filmmaker and sex worker, hailing from suburban Toronto. His writing has appeared in magazines across Canada (a few of which you may have even heard of) and his films have been screened widely at festivals and galleries (most of which you haven’t). He's bad at Twitter, but trying to improve. Reach him at devondelacroix@gmail.com.

Read More About:
Love & Sex, Hard Labour, Canada, Sex

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