Campus Call Boy, page 6
Yeah, I’m not doing too well managing this relationship.
I’m due over at Philip’s at eight o’clock, and I try to pump myself up for it by taking my time getting pretty. I trim my armpit hairs, manscape my pubes, shave my balls. I try on a new pair of low-cut briefs I just ordered through the mail, and I pose in front of my full-length mirror, checking out my bulge, my butt, my cut abs and pecs, my guns. Yeah, I’m a hot package. Gonna get Daddy Provost drooling with this bod. I pull on a pair of cargo pants that are casual but just tailored enough to make my ass pop, and I throw on a short-sleeve Polo that stretches nicely over my chest. A little work on my hair, and I grab my watch and drive over to Philip’s place.
Bunches of students are out, revved up to go to parties as I drive along the road around campus. It’s Spring Fever weekend. All the fraternities and co-ops throw crazy parties. Besides Halloween, it’s the biggest night for drunken antics, and I feel just a little jealous of the kids swaggering down the sidewalk, laughing and hollering, out for a good time. I think about how I could be out there with Carlos party-hopping. Its something I’ve never done in the three years I’ve been a student.
I meet Philip at the back door. He’s dressed down in a polo shirt and chinos and looking pretty pleased as he takes me in head to toe. He lets me in and gives me a hug, just like normal, and then he ushers me into the living room to make us drinks.
He tells me he’s got snacks for afterward if I’m interested. I’m pretty sure I’m not. I like to get in and get out when doing sex work, especially since Philip’s been a bit off lately. I tell him I appreciate him going to the trouble.
He brings me a tumbler of scotch and sits down close to me with his glass of red wine. We clink glasses and throw some back, and then I lean up on him with one leg pressed against his, brushing the hairs on the back of his neck, getting him warmed up.
Philip smiles quietly, but he’s got that look like he has things on his mind. He places his hand on my leg.
“Have you thought about my proposal?”
My stomach plunges. It comes back to me then, but I hadn’t given it a lick of thought since Thursday. I grasp for an answer.
“I have.” I press up closer, caressing his shoulder, brushing my cheek against his beard. “What did you have in mind?”
He chuckles. “You haven’t. Let’s be honest, Max.”
I guess this is the week for the men in my life to be confrontational. Philip’s tone is not exactly icy, but he definitely wants to cut through the shit. His intelligent eyes peer deep into mine, searching for my motivations hidden there.
He takes a sip of his wine and gently swirls the glass. “It’s all right,” he says. “I have thought about it. You need something from me, and I need something from you. It’s quite simple, really. And much more compatible than most relationships.” He fixes on me again. “I’ve come to terms with it, and I need to know if you have as well.”
I sit back a little. He’s shattered the fantasy, and we’re two guys having a conversation. Well, one guy with a PhD., adult kids, and more money than he knows what to do with, and another doing sex work to pay for college. All I can do is maintain a professional demeanor.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“I want to make love to you and for you to spend the night in my bed. I’m an early riser. We’ll have coffee and breakfast in the morning, and you’ll be on your way by eight a.m., free to go back to the more interesting things in your life.”
I don’t like his tone, like he’s accusing me of using him.
Philip goes on, “I want you to make me feel this is all a natural thing. That I invited you over, and you want to be here.” He gives me a wise glance. “You’re good at making me believe you want me sexually. But can you find it in yourself to show me our relationship is more than sex?”
I figure I should let that go as a rhetorical question. For the first time, I can see him talking to students in a lecture hall. Smug and cynical. I can’t land on how to react.
“I suppose we won’t know until we try,” he says. “I do not wish to understand your true feelings about me. I suspect the truth would keep me up at night. This is what I’m proposing, Max.”
The way he looks at me and says the name, he’s letting me know he knows it’s an invention. He wants me to let my guard down, but he’s got to respect I can’t do that.
“One night each week, I want you to myself. I won’t ask for anything from you the other 156 hours of the week.” His gaze drifts away. “I’ve arbitrated the matter of you being with other men and come to the conclusion I must accept you for who you are if I expect you to accept me for who I am. It’s only fair, isn’t it? But for one night, you belong to me, mind and body. That is the only way this can work, don’t you see? I’ve denied myself so much in my unremarkable life. And for what?” His face turns bitter. “To have a wife who gave me the sheen of public respectability while she reminded me of my inadequacy in private whenever she could. Sons to whom I’m invisible until they need a check signed to their name.”
He sounds like he’s having the conversation with himself as much as with me.
“I’d do it all differently, Max, if I could go back in time,” he says. “But that’s not an option. So I searched for a simulation of what it might have been like to be young and free. I’ve bought men before. Some were less scrupulous than you. Some were more authentic in their affections, but my attention waned. There are so many aspects to desire, aren’t there? I suppose it’s as the Buddhists say: to fall in love is to reveal oneself. Sometimes in surprising ways. I plucked you out of the Internet expecting no more than a lusty body to satisfy my needs. Instead, you brought joy into my life, such as I had never experienced. To feel this…desire for someone else. To glimpse the possibility that person might want me in the same way. I cannot describe it any other way than profound.”
A lighthearted frown perks up on his face. “It’s not real. Max, I’m not a fool. I know it’s not real. But it’s the best I can expect to bargain from the world. To feel like a human being just every now and then. You understand that? It’s important you understand, Max. I deserve that, don’t you think?”
In one sitting, this is more than he has said to me in the entire three months we’ve been fucking. I manage to nod in answer to his question.
He pats my knee. “Good. Then here’s the part you’ll like. I will pay you four thousand dollars for these visits. Yes, let’s call them visits, shall we? Should you agree, I’ll end this dramatic soliloquy. We can close up the fourth wall as they say and never speak of it again. I suspect that won’t be difficult for either one of us. You be Max. I’ll be Philip, as we were when you walked through the door tonight.”
Four thousand dollars. I’ve been averaging a little over three thousand a week. I lick my lips and reach out for my tumbler of scotch. This is something I need some time to think about, but I don’t have that time. Philip is sitting right next door studying me with a poker face. He’s looking for my honest reaction, but is he being honest with me? He did lay a lot on the line. Clearly, he’s given this thought. But people can play mind games with themselves. If I give him more, will he demand even more?
“You said we won’t know until we try, right?” I say.
He nods slowly. “There’s no obligation from either party. Either one of us can call it off at any time.”
I draw a deep breath. That sets me at ease, a little. Four thousand dollars. I could cut back on other clients entirely. Have more time to study. Have more time to do whatever I want.
“Okay. I’m in, Philip.”
♂ ♂
COMPARTMENTALIZATION IS THE psychological function of putting one’s experience of the world into categories in order to cope with stressful life events and/or conflicting values. I learned about the concept in Psych 101, but I didn’t really grasp it until I read Jason Ward’s memoir.
Sex workers have to compartmentalize their personal lives and relationships while putting their behaviors and interactions with clients into different boxes. For example, in my personal life, I wouldn’t be in a hotel room wearing a swim cap and goggles, with my ankles over my head, spreading my butt cheeks while a married stranger peeks out at me from the closet, jerking off in a garter belt and a black lace teddy. I put that stuff in the money compartment, and I go about my day living as a college student who has sex when there’s a mutual attraction and not as an accessory to cheating. That’s why handles are important. Noah is the real me. Max is a temporary work handle. Noah is a straight A student who’s going places. Max is an avatar I use to make money in fantasy land.
This situation with Philip is going to require a lot of compartmentalization, but I’m feeling I can do it. Once a week, I’ll put on Max like a superhero costume and be his boyfriend. The rest of my time, our relationship will be out of sight and out of mind.
The guy just wants to feel wanted. It’s really not so far out of my value system. Everyone deserves intimacy in their lives, and the guy missed out on finding the kind of relationship he needs because he grew up in an era when guys who liked guys were ridiculed and stayed in the closet. I’m basically a sex therapist like Helen Hunt in that movie where she teaches a quadriplegic about physical intimacy. Maybe that’s a little harsh to compare to Dr. Geary, but you get what I mean.
After our talk, we go upstairs to his bedroom, and I take a shower as usual. Philip said we’d reset to the way we were. I come out of his bathroom naked, and he’s stripped down on his bed, partially covered by the sheets and reading something on his tablet. I climb up there beside him. He’s like half a beat slow, and then he places his tablet on his nightstand and hugs me, crushing our lips together and giving me tongue. He roams his hands over my back and sides and croons to me.
“So glad you came over.”
We have sex the way we’ve always done—him devouring me top to bottom and fucking my ass while he looks down at me with my knees tucked into my chest. He makes me come, and then he lies down at my side and cradles me against him.
That goes on longer than usual since there’s no time pressure. Glancing at his clock-alarm, I see it’s only nine-thirty. An idea hits me, and I’m thinking it’ll be a way for me to step up my game and give him something special. For four thousand dollars, I ought to throw in some extras.
I prop myself up on an elbow and trace the sweat on his hairy chest. “Y’know, in all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never seen you come.”
He laughs mildly. “I come, I assure you.” Philip glances downward at his brick-red member, which is still as hard as when he entered me. “Not like when I was a young man. Misspend your youth as much as you can. That’s my advice. Sometime in your forties, you find yourself with two choices: masturbating a flaccid dick to achieve a dribble of jizz or artificial vasodilation to get a four-hour erection incapable of orgasm.”
I know a thing or two about erectile dysfunction. That’s ninety percent of my clientele. “Maybe I can help. You want to give it a try?”
He looks at me skeptically. “I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
I eye him steadily. It seems unfair he never gets off when we have sex. I’m kinda sincerely curious to see him pop.
Philip shrugs. I reach my hand down to his cock, awaiting his permission. He nods, plants his gaze at the ceiling. I guess he’s worried it won’t work and feeling ashamed.
I peel the condom off him and grab his bottle of lube. I get one hand nice and slippery, and then I take hold of him, stroking gently, just getting him used to my touch. A Viagra cock is like morning wood. You might have to pee, might want to come, but your pecker is in rigor mortis and not letting anything pass through. But I know the spots that get even that kind of dick breathing again.
I stroke him just under the glans and watch his cockhead twitch, catch Philip looking down and smiling a bit. Then I slip two fingers beneath his balls and caress the spot above his prostate. Yeah, that’s pay dirt. I can make myself come just touching myself there. I see that smile on Philip’s face growing bigger. When I give his glans some love with my other hand, he shuts his eyes and relaxes, probably concentrating on letting his nut burst.
It’s not happening just yet. I can feel his cock is still too stiff, squeezing closed his urethra like a vise. I raise one of his knees and tent it, helping him into a position where I can work him from inside and out. He opens his eyes to get a read on what I’m up to.
“You ever played with your butt?” I ask him.
He coughs out a laugh. “A little. It’s never been my thing.”
“You trust me?” I show him my two wet fingers. “It’ll just be this. Feels amazing, I promise.”
He closes his eyes again. “Okay.”
Now I really feel like Helen Hunt. Like I’m treating a medical patient. But it’s all right. Philip is probably uncomfortable with his old guy parts getting such close attention. I’m here to make him feel normal, sexy.
I slick up one finger a little more, and I snuggle it inside him. Goes in pretty easy. Another sad fact my work has taught me is guys lose the elasticity in their ass as they get older. Something I’m not looking forward to. Philip’s not so loose as to not register my finger, though. His body tightens up, and his face colors. I take it gentle, and I rub the pad of my thumb beneath his glans.
When I see his body quieting, I dig in deep to find his prostate. I press against it, making him gasp. Men have a G-spot, too. That’s why butt-fucking is so damn delicious. Now his cock is giving me little nods while I groove my finger over that spot. He’s damper in my hand, and his lips part to let out panting breaths. A bead of precum oozes from his cockslit. I smile. He’s getting close.
I figure a second finger will send him over the top, and I stretch him open and get both digits rolling over the roof of his trap. Yeah, professor moans. I keep his cock captive in my hand, tantalizing that sensitive glans. His dick is straining, and Philip’s chest is really heaving now with short breaths. He launches a hand out to grab my arm like he can’t take it any more. Then his dick jounces, and a strangled gasp croaks out of him while he spits up one healthy load of cream on my fist.
Grabbing the washcloth I cleaned up with myself, I wipe the mess off both my hands. Philip is lying back, looking stunned.
“That may have been the best orgasm I’ve had in ten years.”
I smile at him. “It was hot.”
He calls me over to cuddle up with him, and he kisses my face. “Thank you. I think you just expanded our repertoire.”
Chapter Nine
WHEN I RETURN to my apartment the next morning, my wallet is four thousand dollars heavier, and I grab a shower running numbers in my head. With a steady income of sixteen grand a month, I can pay off my current tuition balance two weeks ahead of schedule, register for classes in the fall, and have that semester’s tuition fully paid before classes even start. After paying my rent, monthly bills, and loan payment, I can set aside probably five thou each month for grad school. It’s a damn comfy budget. I’ll reach my grad fund goal in ten months, four months before graduation.
I’m itching to get on my laptop and start punching numbers into my personal finance spreadsheet. I rush through shampooing my hair, hop out of the shower, and wrap a towel around my waist after barely drying off. I plop down at my bedroom desk where I left my computer, and I pull up the spreadsheet to revise my income projections.
I’m floored by the growth of my disposable income. I could treat myself to a trip to Europe this summer, which I’ve always wanted to do. I could upgrade my laptop, drive downstate for a shopping spree at the high-end shopping center, sign up for a service that delivers pre-made meals, and still have a good chunk of cash left over. Alternatively, I could contribute to my grad fund more aggressively and set up a portfolio of long-term investments. I could do that first part, hit my goal, and kiss escorting goodbye forever in six months.
Or, the devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear, I could pick up another two, three clients a week and do all of that and more.
I need a financial advisor. I go grubbing through my closet because I think I left a pack of smokes in my winter coat, and I need a frickin’ cigarette. I find the smokes, light one off my stove, and flop down on my couch. Yeah, I need advice, badly. The problem is I’ve got no one to talk to. No professional is going to want to get involved with investing money that I technically received illegally. I’m even worried about talking to Darius about this windfall since he’s scraping to get by. I’ll help him out, if he lets me. I should have thought about that first.
Pay off tuition, cap my grad fund, and dump escorting.
That’s the solution pulling at me hardest. Though I don’t know. My mind is racing. I remember I’ve got this twice-monthly guy named Doug lined up for Monday night at the Hampton Inn, and some Korean out-of-towner wanting me at his Airbnb on Friday.
I grab my phone and stare at the Snapchat app for a while. That’s where I communicate with most of my clients since it’s safer than text or e-mail. I settle on a compromise. I’ll cancel on the out-of-towner and keep Doug in circulation for now. This week I’m riding high, but you never know when the bottom could drop out.
I send that message, and then I make an appointment at the hair salon in town. My roots are starting to show, and I’m gonna treat myself to a dye and trim, maybe even throw in a mani-pedi. Oh, it’s fun being rich. I look up the phone number for the laundromat and order pick-up service for my fucking laundry.
♂ ♂
CARLOS’S TEXTS START dinging in around five o’clock when I’m driving back from the salon. I know I sound like a horrible person, but I completely forgot about his co-op party. It’s been an eventful weekend. I was actually planning on getting a feast of Chinese delivery and catching up on readings in my apartment.
The first text is a photo of him out at a club. It must be from last night. He’s wearing a scoop neck t-shirt and is goofy-drunk but cute as fuck. A minute later:
