“Hmm . . . you’re a dirty boy,” I say with a smile. “Let’s get started on that.”
I take off his jacket, pull his sweater vest over his head and begin unbuttoning his shirt. There’s nothing strange about undressing a client (or a casual sex partner for that matter). But there’s something a little off about what I’m doing. Once he’s naked from the waist up, I give his skinny torso a gentle push and he lies back on the bed. I slide his shoes off, unbuckle his belt, and pull his pants down leaving him in his underwear.
He’s thin, but delicately muscled; the kind of body I’m normally very attracted to. That combined with his youthful good looks and his wry charm means I should be rock hard by this point. But I’m totally flaccid. As sexy as I find him, there’s a part of me that’s finding the whole thing very unsexy, like I’m helping a child out of his clothes before a bath, rather than getting ready to fuck a 40-year-old man.
If he’s aware of my apprehension, it doesn’t show. He’s leaning back on the bed, propped up on his elbows, beaming ear to ear. I begin running my face along the front of his tighty-whities, hoping to feel that stirring that tells me he’s aroused. But there’s nothing going on down there. In a normal situation, I don’t get concerned if I’m with bottom who doesn’t get hard. The guy is often so focused on his ass that his dick barely enters the sexual equation. But again, I’m struck by a kind of worry. Is his lack of erection because he just wants me to flip him over and pound him? Is it somehow related to the HIV? Or is he, despite his smile, just not turned on by me?
My mind starts swirl with thoughts of his condition and my reactions to it — whether I’m coming off as uncomfortable or fearful. His status doesn’t concern me (in the way that I’m afraid of contracting it) and it’s not his disability that’s turning me off. But there’s something about the combination that’s difficult for me to navigate; like his damaged body is somehow pointing a bright, flashing arrow at my own mortality, my susceptibility to disease, my potential (and eventual) physical deterioration. It’s not like I don’t think about these things all the time. But in this moment, being with someone so young living with such palpable signs of the body’s vulnerability is affecting me in a way I hadn’t expected.
These kinds of existential meditations are definite boner-killers and I’m starting to worry I won’t be able to get hard. There are times when erections don’t come as easily with clients as you want them to and it’s not something to beat yourself up over. Still, it represents a potential disappointment that’s hard to handle. From the escort’s end its proof that you’re not as great as you think you are. For the client, it’s as if your non-cooperative body is saying they’re so undesirable not even someone being paid can muster the desire to fuck them.
In moments like these, I try to return to some time-honoured wisdom: Don’t fuck with your brain and don’t think with your dick. If you want to make good decisions in everyday life, you can’t let sex be your guide. And if you want to enjoy yourself in the bedroom, you need to turn your brain off. I try to shake my distraction and refocus on Ben. “Let’s get a look at that ass,” I say, as I grab him around the waist. I try to haul him to standing, but despite his slight frame, he’s too heavy for me. Instead, I roll him over on his stomach, his legs dangling off the side of the bed.
I pull his underwear down, revealing his skinny ass, and bury my face in it. Rimming is usually best way to get myself hard and I start stroking myself as my tongue is poking in and out of his hole. Eventually I manage a tepid erection, quickly grab a condom from the side table, and try to squeeze into him, hoping I can stay hard enough to get inside. His ass parts easily and he moans as I enter. I begin slowing sliding in and out, trying to stay hard enough that I don’t fall out. This is the moment where your brain can actually help a little bit. I close my eyes and start walking through my spank bank, imagining all sorts of perverted situations, trying to keep it up.
Despite my relative flaccidity, he seems to be enjoying it, moaning and telling me it’s great. Finally, on one overly ambitious outward thrust my almost completely limp dick falls out of his ass, the condom covered with a rather thick layer of shit. I glance around for a tissue box but there’s nothing to grab it with, so I give his ass a playful slap and say I’m going to the washroom for a second. I grab a generous handful of toilet paper, and ease the condom off, rolling it in an extra layer before I toss it in the trash. Shitty condoms are an occasional reality of anal sex. But I always try to save the client any possible embarrassment by ensuring whatever state it was in when it came out, they don’t see it.
Back in the room, he’s in the same position I left him. I flip him over and he’s still beaming. However unsexy the experience is for me, it seems to be working for him. “That was great,” he says. “I’d really like to take your piss now, if I can.” At this point, I feel somewhat desperate to leave so I debate trying to get out of it. But with the substandard fucking I gave him, I feel like I should at least give him that. So, I help him to his feet and we walk to the bathroom.
I hadn’t given much thought to how this part will work, but now I’m stumped. The easiest way to piss on someone is with them kneeling in front of you. But I’m doubtful he can manage that with his legs. Before I can ask about positioning, he’s bent himself over, one hand around my waist for support, his mouth few inches from my dick. I close my eyes, trying to transport myself out of the room, letting myself relax enough to get it flowing. I can’t manage to get a stream started so I gently lift him up and suggest we turn the shower on. I take the head off the wall, running warm water over our bodies. He returns to his bent position, with his mouth in front of my cock.
I’m almost relaxed enough to start, when I feel his hand leave my waist and a loud plop as he falls. I have a moment of panic, wondering if he’s broken something. He reaches up to me with his skinny arms and I can’t get him up. Instead, I squat, wrap my hands around his waist and lift him back to standing. There’s a big splotch of blood on the tiles where he landed, and a corresponding gash on his ass. I turn the shower off and pull a towel off the rack, wrapping it around him. “Come on. Let’s go back to the bed room,” I say. “Oh, but I’d still like to take your piss,” he says. “Maybe,” I say. “But first I need to take a look at where you cut yourself.”
I lie him down on the bed, and turn him over, his bloodied butt check exposed. It isn’t as bad as I thought, but I still press the towel into it firmly, trying to stop the bleeding. “Could you stay over night?” he asks. “I’d really like to take your morning piss.” An injury, of any kind really, but especially one that draws blood is generally my cue a sexual encounter is over. But Ben doesn’t seem to care. It may be the booze. It may be he wants to make the most of the situation. Or it may be that these kinds of accidents are such a part of his everyday life that a little fall in the shower and a bleeding ass aren’t enough to turn him off.
The cut mostly clotted, I grab an alcohol pad and a bandage from my bag, and patch him up. He turns over, reaches up to grab me and tries to pull me down on top of him. I lie there, with my arms around him, feeling like the worst whore in the world. I’ve barely approached even giving him what he wanted. I’d started the encounter so sure I was going to rock his world and instead I’ve left him injured and unsatisfied. The fall has given me a shot of adrenaline and I don’t feel drunk in the least anymore, but he still seems fairly intoxicated, murmuring about how much he wants my piss and how he wants me to spend the night. Ordinarily someone wanting to extend a session is a bonus. But right now I just want to leave.
I give him another squeeze and stand to start getting dressed. He props himself up on the bed, watching me, still smiling. “I really wish you could stay,” he says. “I’d love to have you spend the night and then take your piss in the morning.” I just mumble a lie about having another meeting and keep preparing to go. I’m about to step out the door, when he sits up on the bed and asks me to pass him his jacket. I’d totally forgotten about the money at this point and would easily have left without it. But he reaches inside, and hands me a small wad of bills.
There’s occasionally a moment at the end of a session when a client gets quite emotional, the reality of the experience overwhelming him. But in this case, it’s me who’s overwhelmed; feeling angry with myself for being unable to satisfy him. He reaches his arms out to hug me and I fall into them exhausted. He looks into my eyes, swipes my hair to the side and smiles again. “Don’t worry,” he says with a wink. “That was great.”
Biking home along the canal I wonder about what just happened; how a sexual experience that began with a client fearing rejection can turn into me feeling like a failure, ultimately being the one who needs support. With the assholes and the guys who stand you up, it’s easy to forget that clients aren’t only in need of compassion. They can also offer it. No matter how much you think you’re giving to the people you provide services to, ultimately generosity goes both ways.
(devondelacroix@gmail.com)
Why you can trust Xtra
