Campus Call Boy, page 2
Besides Philip, I’ve got three regular local clients. I usually get two or three guys blowing into town for conferences a month, and when I have the time, I’ll do the three-hour drive to the big city, charging an extra two hundred for travel. I pull in between seven to eight grand monthly. That’s ninety thousand annually, and it’s all tax free. I’ve got my tuition covered, I moved into a pretty nice one-bedroom apartment off-campus, bought a car, and I’ll have my freshman and sophomore year student loans paid off before I graduate. Plus, I’ll have money saved to pay for my M.B.A.
Now, about Dr. Philip Geary.
That money envelope he gave me had two extra hundred dollar bills. With the watch, that was something like a four thousand dollar gig. I’m kind of astounded, kind of ready to howl out my car window like a country boy, but I’m also just a little concerned. Another thing I tried to educate myself on was what to avoid in sex work. I found websites for sex worker advocacy and read this awesome memoir by a dude who made big money as an escort, and he says one of the worst pitfalls is having a client fall in love with you.
That may sound counterintuitive, but it’s about boundaries. Just like you wouldn’t want to keep beating a guy who’s crying out his safe word, you need to be careful not to do emotional harm. When you keep having sex with a guy who’s fallen for you and built up this fantasy the two of you will be in love some day, well, that’s emotional harm for sure. Good sex workers maintain an ethical code like any profession. Not to mention, a client who’s mixing up sex and love can get possessive and dangerous.
It’s hard for me to imagine mild-mannered Philip taking a turn in that direction, but I can’t deny his behavior is sending signals he’s into me more than what’s realistic. It’s a really fine line. I mean, on one hand, my job is to make him feel sexy and desirable. To maintain a clientele, I’ve got to keep guys happy and wanting me back. Besides, some men get off on spending money on their lovers. It’s part of the fantasy.
I decide the right thing to do is have a talk with Philip about this, maybe even give him back the watch and extra cash if he says he’s falling in love with me. With that, I try to put the topic out of mind because it’s making me irritable. The possibility of losing a good-paying client sucks.
Chapter Three
THAT WAS SATURDAY night. I spend the rest of the weekend working on a big midterm paper for my Organizational Behavior class, and then I haul a bag of laundry down to the laundromat late Sunday afternoon. I could totally afford to drop it off, have someone else do the washing, drying and folding, and pick it up later in the week. Believe me, I fucking hate doing laundry. The thought has crossed my mind once or twice.
But I’m committed to a stingy budget so I can make triple payments on my loan each month. I also make a four grand deposit quarterly to a short-term CD that’s going to pay for graduate school. The financial management side of escorting is tricky. I’m not proud about hiding a big part of my income from taxes and drawing down financial aid because of it. But there’s obviously a major problem with reporting the money I’m making. Besides the illegality, my mom and dad would totally flip out, and I’d get kicked out of school and kiss goodbye any chance of having a career.
I’ve got a system worked out. It’s not exactly airtight, but I figure it will keep me under the radar for the next couple of years. Darius has a friend who’s a lawyer, and she helped us draw up papers to incorporate a house painting business as a shell company. We can make cash deposits into the bank account and withdraw payments to ourselves as tax-free business expenses. I stow a few thou away in there each month and transfer the money into my personal checking account so it looks like I’m getting paychecks for painting houses. Meanwhile, I try to pay for everything I can in cash: my tuition payments, rent, clothes, food. I even bought my 2018 Volkswagen GTI directly from the owner with old fashioned green.
It hasn’t raised any questions so far, and when I graduate, I’ll get out of the business completely. My parents think I’m still borrowing to pay tuition. There’s some things they don’t need to know. A lot of things, actually.
So around six o’clock Sunday night, I’m holed up in the laundromat with my laptop, polishing up my midterm paper while two loads of wash spin in dryers. I’m in total Noah Jeffries gear. Around town and campus, I pretty much live in track pants, sneakers, a hoodie, and a Philadelphia Flyers cap. When it’s reasonably sunny, I’ll wear sunglasses, and when it’s warm, I switch out the hoodie for a t-shirt. Today, it’s still hoodie weather. It’s easy, comfy stuff to wear, and I blend in with the thousands of other college brahs. That cap helps hide my expensively maintained blonde shag. No one’s ever recognized me as Max Wilde before, at least as far as I know.
Later, I’ll be getting tricked out in designer jeans and a boy’s size pullover to meet some Indian guy Rami at his hotel room. He’s in town for an engineering conference. It’s kind of brutal because he wants me over at one o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got a nine a.m. class on Mondays. But I can’t turn down the opportunity to build my international clientele.
One of my dryers buzzes, and I head over to cart out my whites and fold them on one of the counters. Sunday is prime time at the laundromat, but I spot a couple feet of counter space to claim. The place is filled with students like me, scraping by to attend the expensive, prestigious university, which is kind of cool. The rich kids live in fraternities and sororities with housekeeping or newer, modern high-rise apartment buildings where they’re definitely sending out their laundry. My dorm mates from my freshman year suite used to chuckle when they saw me dragging my wash to the laundry room on the weekends. All three of them were prep school brats who had never done their own laundry before. I hadn’t known people like that existed, and it pissed me off that they treated all the service workers on campus like shit. No matter how much money I make when I’m out running my own corporation, I never want to forget where I came from.
I notice three kids bounce into the laundromat. They’re wearing beat-up jean and army jackets with lots of safety pins and patches, t-shirts emblazoned with rock bands and ironic slogans, punkish streaks of hot pink and electric blue hair. Student activists. It’s funny to me how just like in high school, everybody joins a tribe in college. This little group is two guys and a girl. They’re pinning up flyers, passing them out, and talking to people. Looks like they’re from the Students for Economic Justice Collective.
I’ve got nothing against them, and more power to them for trying to make the world a better place. But I keep folding my clothes to give off the vibe I’m not interested in being recruited. Nonetheless, one of the guys catches my glance for a blink, and I know I’m sunk. He rolls up on me with a big, friendly smile.
I wasn’t expecting to be face-to-face with a dude with the most amazing hazel eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s got a warm, mellow complexion, maybe Latin or Native American. Big, black stud earrings in both ears. His overgrown, wavy, jet-black hair looks like it’s unintentionally bed-tossed, and he’s grown out the requisite scruff on his cheeks and chin.
“How you doin’?” he says.
I smirk. I don’t mind being approached by a cute dude, but I’m thinking nothing good can come of this.
“Fine.” I resume sorting out my socks, briefs, and tees on the counter, thinking he might catch my drift. He plants himself at my side, getting comfortable.
“You heard about the student walkout tomorrow?” He reaches one of his black-and-white flyers toward me.
I decide I’m not going to be a total dick. “No.” I take the flyer from him, give it a glance, not really registering much.
“Noon tomorrow, we’re walking out of class and gathering in the arts quad to stand in solidarity with the cafeteria workers and janitors,” he explains. “They’re going on strike for a living wage. You know the average worker makes twelve dollars an hour? Less than twenty-five grand a year?”
I didn’t. Though the first thing that occurs to me is I better pack my lunch tomorrow if no one’s working at the dining hall. Yes, it’s petty, but I’m not the protest type.
“Workers haven’t had a raise in three years, and meanwhile they’ve upped tuition fifteen percent,” he goes on. “They’ve got money to build a new football stadium and give the administration fat salary increases. But the lady who slings your oatmeal in the morning uses food banks to feed her kids.”
I veer away from his piercing, earnest gaze. How come everyone else in the place is just getting flyers, not the whole guilt speech?
“That sucks,” I tell him. “If you’ve got a petition, I’m happy to sign it. But walkouts aren’t my thing.”
He looks me over, gets a clever glow on his face. “Business major?”
I give him a playful scowl. It’s been a while since I’ve been sassed. Well, Darius sasses me all the time about being a preppy college student. Feels kind of nice coming from one of my peers, though.
Dude busts out with a laugh at my indignation. “I’m just ridin’ you, boss. The online petition’s on the flyer, but what we need even more is people filling the quad at noon tomorrow. Get some local media coverage, y’know?”
“I am a business major,” I deadpan.
That puts him off balance. For a beat.
He leans in a little closer. “That’s not a problem. We welcome all kinds.”
“Even future exploiters of the masses?”
“I’ll send you our position paper on corporate responsibility.” His gaze drifts to the pile of clothes in my cart. Grinning big, he scoops up my 2xist mesh jock strap. “Hey, you show up just wearing this tomorrow, we’ll have every hall around the quad emptied out.”
I grab it back from him. He’s adorably annoying. My face is bright red. He stands back a little, trying not to chuckle but not doing such a good job. I notice he’s got an iron-on patch with a rainbow-striped upturned fist on the shoulder of his jacket.
“Don’t hate me, bro,” he says. “That was probably out of line. I just…” A blush blooms on his face. He sways up to my ear, and his breath brushes my skin as he says quietly, “I just came over here because you’re really cute.”
I’m kind of impressed. He’s got the balls to hit on a stranger in the middle of a packed laundromat. And we’re totally the main attraction right now. People generally keep to themselves at the place, but glances dart at us, and the only sound is spin cycles and clothes clopping around in the dryers. His buddies, that guy and the girl, have drawn up together, grinning goofily at our exchange.
“That’s pretty insulting,” I kid him. “You sized me up as someone with no social conscience?”
“No,” he says. “But your taste in underwear is kind of sending me through a second puberty.”
I snort out a laugh. I’ve never had a guy looking through my underwear before. It’s getting me heated.
“I’m Carlos.” He throws out his hand awkwardly. I take it in mine. The gamester has an ice-cold palm.
“Noah.”
He grins. “I don’t think I seen you around. Where you been hiding yourself?”
“Laundromats.”
“I bet you live off-campus.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m in Hirschell House.”
I’ve heard Hirschell House. It’s a co-op where a lot of the queer, artsy students live. Named after some gay civil rights lawyer who’s an alum and gave the university a lot of money. Carlos looks like he’s got a scrappy body beneath his oversized black t-shirt and loose-fitting, beat-up jeans. We’re about the same height. Usually his grunge type gives me an itchy feeling, but I don’t feel that way in our proximity. Or I should say, I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind feeling him skin-to-skin to see if he makes me itchy or something else.
Carlos looks at the flyer I set down on the counter. “You can blow off the walkout, but how about getting together for coffee sometime?”
I totally dig that idea. Then, all at once, things screech to a halt in my head. I can’t be dating guys for fun. I’ve got way too much on my plate with keeping up my grades, juggling my clients, and studying for the MCAT so I can get into a top tier M.B.A. program. I’m gutted by Carlos’s deflated look while I hesitate.
“I’m kind of off the market.”
He puffs out a weary breath. “You got a boyfriend.”
“Something like that. It’s complicated.”
He smirks a little, getting his game play on. “In that case, it’s just coffee. I’m not proposing we shack up and adopt babies together.”
I drop my gaze, grinning. He comes back at me before I can give him another excuse.
“How ‘bout giving me your number?” He brings out his cell. “In case things get less complicated?”
I can’t see the harm in that. I take his phone and tap in my digits.
He takes his phone back, looking like he’s just won the lotto. He stuffs his phone in his jacket pocket, plants his earnest eyes on me, and grabs my hand to say goodbye.
“Nice meeting you, Noah. You’re gonna hear from me.”
I give him a smile, but I’m feeling like a jerk inside because there’s no way in hell I’m going to be getting together with him.
Chapter Four
THAT NIGHT I’M at the Hampton Inn and Suites, lying on a bed in my mesh jock strap while a gaunt, mustached, Indian dude feels my pecs and rubs his boner against my leg. I’m fighting to give him some focus. I keep thinking about Carlos. I want to get to know him. Not just because he’s cute. I liked his sense of humor, and there’s something really noble and attractive about the work he’s doing to help low wage workers on campus. I grin, thinking about it, and then I catch myself, not wanting to give Rami the impression I find him amusing.
“You’re beautiful,” he purrs in my ear.
“Thanks.” I give him an admiring smile. That’s about all I’ve got. If anyone ever tells you sex work is easy money, they don’t know shit. You’ve got to be on point, all the time, even when you’re totally not in the mood for it.
Rami looks down at my jock. “May I touch it?”
I amp up some enthusiasm, “Oh, yeah.”
He giggles and very gingerly places his hand on my stuff. I can’t tell his age. Anywhere from thirty-five to fifty, I figure. He’s got kind of a young face, but his waxy skin hangs from the bone on an otherwise skeletal physique. He’s prissy, which I figure he might be playing up if that’s his kink. He touches me very lightly and seals his lips together like a little girl doing something naughty.
Picking up his vibe, I pull down my underwear, thinking that I’ll scald him with a thrill. He shields his eyes and giggles again, peeking at my private parts laid out bare.
He pokes me in the shoulder admonishingly. “Dirty boy.”
All righty. This is going to be interesting.
“I can’t touch that,” he says in a babyish voice.
I eye him firmly. “You’re gonna. Or I’m gonna have to spank your fanny.”
He gasps dramatically. “Oh, I can’t! I’ll get my hand all dirty.”
I put on a mean stare.
Rami gawps. Then he looks over his shoulder where he has a valise on the table. “Let me get my glove.”
The guy unpacks a lady’s white lace glove that goes all the way up to his elbow. Looks like something Queen Victoria would wear. He climbs back on the bed and sits beside me with his legs tucked tightly together. With little stops and starts, he takes my cock in his gloved hand and tugs and squeezes at me.
It’s not the sexiest I’ve ever felt, but I can pretty much get hard when I’m free-balling it and my dick rubs against the inside of my track pants. I can also get on board with just about any kink. That’s my job. For a while, I had a client who wanted me to do a hard workout before coming over to his place so he could sniff my underwear, sweat socks, and sneakers while watching me jerk off.
Rami’s getting breathy, twitchy.
“Look at that big, filthy cock in your hand.”
He giggles, all rosy-faced. “Mommy will be so mad when she finds out I used her glove.”
Well, that’s…different. I try to reset my brain.
“I think you like touching my cock.”
He lightly slaps my chest reproachfully. “You’re very brash.” He glances back at my erection and lets out a whimper. “I think that’s enough,” he says. Priggishly, Rami unrolls the glove and loosens it from his hand, finger by finger. He drops it on my chest. “Now I want you to stuff it in my mouth and fuck me.”
I take the glove, sit up, and I rub it on his face, getting him wide-eyed and whimpering before I ball it up and make him eat it like a gag. He gets down on his knees and elbows, and I go hunting for the condoms and lube in my jacket. One has to be versatile in my business. If I could only do one for the rest of my life, I’d bottom, but I don’t mind it either way.
While I fuck him doggy style, my mind drifts back to Carlos. What if I showed up at his walkout tomorrow? Surprise the hell out of him. Just flirting with him gave me butterflies in the stomach. Maybe we’d grab lunch after the demonstration. Maybe I’d invite him back to my place. We’d get inside and tear off each other’s clothes. His lips were so kissable. Wouldn’t mind him backing me up against the wall, sucking face real deep, his heated crotch grinding against mine.
I’m gonna cum any minute.
“You want it on you?” I ask Rami.
He garbles something that sounds like a refusal. I pull out of him, and he rolls on his back. His eyes stab at me, and he beats his chest.
