I shift slightly, so our faces are in front of each other, and press my lips to his. He grasps my body and I move so that I’m slightly on top of him, letting him feel my weight. We continue to kiss, our hands running up and down each other’s body. By this point my cock is getting hard and pressing into him. I reach down to his groin but he’s totally flaccid.
“It doesn’t always work,” he says.
“That’s okay,” I say. “It’s not mandatory.”
He pushes me off him playfully and then tries to twist himself around so he can suck me. He struggles to manoeuvre himself so I swing around, bringing my dick as close to his face as I can. Fortunately, the king size bed means there’s enough space that my head and shoulders aren’t hanging off the edge.
His head bobs up and down on my cock, with surprisingly good technique. I try to ease off my orgasm, not wanting to come too quickly since we still have a lot of time to fill. But he brings me to the edge faster than I would have expected and I shoot into his mouth.
It’s always a little awkward when you come too early in a session. Assuming you aren’t going to get hard again, which I probably won’t with the 30 minutes left, it sort of signals that things are over. But he doesn’t seem unhappy with my premature ejaculation and just lies contentedly with his face in my crotch. After a few minutes, I gently lift his head and swing myself back around to our original position, wrapping my arms around him.
I’m so curious to know more about his situation. But also I’m not sure how much I can ask. People’s secrets often fall out very easily after they’ve had an orgasm; but since I’m the only one who came, that’s not going to have any effect on him. I decide to tread cautiously.
“So you and your husband . . . ” I start. “It must be difficult since the stroke.”
“Yes,” he says. “Before we were able to go out places, to travel. We can still, but it’s a lot effort, so we don’t as much as before.”
“And . . .” I say, struggling with the question. “Do you still have . . . intimacy?”
He smiles.
“Sex,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Not anymore.”
“Not since the stroke?”
“No,” he says. “It made things different. But in a way it’s not that strange. For gay couples, when you’ve been together a while it’s normal you stop having sex — with each other at least.”
“He obviously knows you’re hiring escorts?”
“Yes.”
“And is he . . . doing anything?”
“I’m sure he meets people sometimes. We don’t really talk about it,” he says. “For me, I really only want to have people here, at my place. It’s too complicated otherwise. But he goes off to do his own thing. With me, he knows who I meet because he’s normally here. With him, I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. We have a good life in other ways.”
We lie together for a few minutes, silent. I’m rolling his situation over and over in my brain. Is his a happy story or a sad one? A couple fall in love, only to have their sex life end a few years in, but decide to stay together regardless.
Maybe he’s right that it’s not that strange. The disability element is obviously specific, but he’s right that many long-term gay couples end up seeking sexual release outside their relationship. So perhaps, as he says, the outcome is actually to be expected, even if the trigger is something different.
“And what about you?” he says, breaking the silence.
“What about me?”
“Do you have a partner?”
I can’t see my face. But I feel myself get ever so slightly red.
“No,” I say.
“Have you ever?”
“Well, I’ve dated a few guys, but never for longer than a year. And not since I started . . . doing this.”
“How is that for you?”
It’s not unusual for sex work to turn into a therapy session, but it’s always me playing the role of therapist. I share certain details of my life with clients, usually things about travel and my writing work. But I never talk about my dating life.
“It’s . . . ” I pause, wondering what I want to say and whether I even want to say it.
“I guess I’d like to have a partner someday. But I don’t really think about it that much. I really don’t expect it to happen while I’m . . . doing this . . . And I’m not planning to quit any time soon, so . . . ”
I trail off and we lie there silently. I’m not feeling upset exactly, but maybe my voice betrays more emotion than I think, because after a minute or so, he give me a little squeeze and kisses my neck.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll meet someone when the time is right.”
I notice the clock is ticking towards the end our appointed time, so I excuse myself to the bathroom to wash my dick. When I return, he’s sitting on the side of the bed and I suddenly realize that, even though I doffed my clothes at the beginning of the session, his shirt and shorts have been on the entire time.
Sex work often means people reveal things about themselves to me, while at the same time I’m working to keep my own secrets guarded. And yet here, it’s me who’s gotten naked, both literally and metaphorically.
When I’m dressed, we begin the slow journey downstairs, him leading and me following, as before. Once we’ve reached the bottom, he’s out of breath, again. We stand together, staring at each other and pondering the connection we just made. I don’t know how often or in how much detail he talks about his life with other escorts, but I almost never share this much of mine with clients.
The moment breaks when his husband opens the office door and steps into the hall.
“Nice to meet you,” he says quickly, before bounding up the stairs.
We turn back to each other and smile. I give him a kiss on the lips and he wraps his arms around my waist. As we part, he turns to a little table next to the door, opens the drawer, pulls out a little stack of bills, and hands them to me. I stuff them in my pocket and kiss him again.
“Until next time,” I say with a wink, turning towards the door.
“Until then,” he says.
I step outside and walk down the driveway. I glance over my shoulder as I step into the street and he gives me a little wave before closing the door. I stick my hand in my pocket, fingering the cash inside, and start making my way towards the bus stop.
Follow Devon on Twitter @devondelacroix
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