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That was not going to happen. I didn't grow up with lots of things. My parents were middle-class, but Dad was stingy with money. We lived on acreage south of Adelaide, around the vineyards. Dad was a partyer. There were always parties. Looking back, I can see that he was an alcoholic.
Mum was a bit submissive, but I guess I enjoyed having the freedom to roam around the scrub. Dad's drinking got progressively worse.
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He was cheating. There was abuse. He left when I was about They sold the acreage and we moved into a dilapidated old house that I hated. I was impressed by nice cars and big houses. After a year or so, Dad came back and my parents sorted things out in their minds, but nothing had changed. Sick of the fights, my sister left home at 18, and I fled as soon as I could at I followed her to Melbourne but living together didn't work out, so I ended up in the system of refuges and transitional housing where you'd be placed with another young person who'd also have issues.
You put two young people together, both with problems, and it's hard. It wouldn't work and they'd match me with another troubled teen, via a youth refuge. I was still trying to go to high school, but every time I moved house, it would be across the other side of Melbourne so I'd have to change school. I finished year 11 but that was as far as I got. I remember admitting to myself that I had an attraction to guys when I was 14, but I used to date girls, too.
I thought I liked both. My hormones were a bit haywire at that age.
I first slept with a guy when I was 17 and it gave me the instant realisation — that's what I like! The whole bisexual thing went out the window. By the time I turned 18 I knew I wasn't going to stay in the world of public housing and Centrelink. I had the job at the juice bar and I moved in with a friend who had a private rental property.
Over the next four years, there were two more occasions when I was paid for sex. Once while travelling in the US, once after reading some graffiti on an Adelaide men's room wall: The following year, when I was 23 , I caught up with a friend for coffee in Melbourne after he'd returned from a year in Sydney.
What was that like? He laughed. Outwardly, I was trying not to appear too interested, but in my head I was taking notes. As it happened, I was planning to move to Sydney soon after. When I got there, I looked for a normal job for about two weeks, had a couple of unsuccessful interviews, spent some money, then picked up the phone and dialled the brothel. The next day I was outside the place, surprised at how ordinary it looked. Just a discreet terrace house.
A guy walked past me without looking and went in. I knocked on the door and he answered: He took me into the office and asked me a couple of questions. He must have been impressed. He didn't even ask to see my appendage. He didn't want my real name, either, just what name I wanted to work under. He never asked for a tax file number or ID, either. I was 23, though they advertised me as Youth is everything in the gay world. At the brothel, we were always referred to as "boys". I was centimetres and 73 kilograms. I could work whatever days I wanted. Night shift or day. The only thing was that if I started a shift, I had to finish it.
I was ushered out the back where all the other boys were sitting. I said hello, sat down and watched the telly. A client would come into the office and the worker would show him our pictures on a screen. He might say he wanted to meet some or all of us. The worker would come out the back and one by one we'd go into the office to meet the client. I found I got picked a lot. I've got to admit that made me feel special. But there was a big downside. Each time I got chosen, I could sense the other boys' growing anger. I'd come down from seeing a client and their eyes wouldn't lift from the TV. There was nothing to do but sit back down and watch some more telly.
Then another client would come in and part of me would not want to get picked again, but the part wanting to get picked was stronger. I'm embarrassed to say it, but I realised I got a kick out of people putting a price on me. One of the other escorts pulled me aside once: I'm old and crusty now. One of my first clients was a normal suit-and-tie type who became a regular. He always visited during office hours.
He was a good client and a nice guy, but he talked sleazy and was a bit aggressive when it came down to business. He had his sex routine. It was always the same, always climaxing with me standing facing the wall. I discussed it with the other boys and they told me he did the same with them, too. They also told me he was a Liberal politician. I Googled him and sure enough, there he was, with a wife and kids and all that. I'd go on seeing him for years. I mentioned once that prostitution was legal in Australia, and he corrected me.
Always had to have his say. He was taking such a risk coming to the brothel. I remember later, him leaving his wallet and phone out while he took a shower, leaving himself open to exposure and blackmail. Not that I'd ever do that. After three months at the brothel, my new-boy honeymoon period was waning. I'd had three months' experience to see how the business worked and what was expected.
I knew I was organised enough, smart enough. I needed an apartment, a personal trainer, gay porn and toys, and to stock up on condoms, lube and amyl nitrate. I wanted to be seen as a professional. I used a website for independent gay male escorts. You put your pictures, phone number and details on it. A lot of guys didn't show their face, but I did because I had some distinctive tattoos so anybody who knew me would recognise me anyway. Nevertheless, I kept my new career a secret from all my friends.
One of my first jobs was a call to a big antiques warehouse after closing time. A man in his 50s opened the door and locked it behind me. He seemed a bit funny. I knew he'd likely be as nervous as me, scared he'd just let some meth-head into his shop, so it was hard to gauge if he was frightened or awkward or just weird. I looked around at all the creepy old furnishings in the darkness, the bars on the windows.
Can host on Darlinghurst or trave Mr Cox said although there was increasing acceptance of those who work in the sex industry, there was still a long way to go. He's back! I'm carrying a big stack of cash. Sydney, gay escort reviews, melbourne, gay and etc. I didn't like drugs but I did drink.
There was no escape if things went bad. It was a sensation I would come to know well. But I realised early on that if you ran from every situation that seemed dodgy, you'd never get any work. I had a job to do, so I did it. He tossed a pair of footy shorts at me and smiled. He turned out to be a nice guy who didn't want much. Some chat and a bit of a massage. He became a regular. He always had a new pair of shorts for me to wear, but I'm not sure I ever saw him completely naked.
It went well for a while but he became strangely clingy and perhaps a little unhinged. Even though regulars were the most important thing to have in this business, I had to stop seeing him. The politician was another semi-regular, but the client who would go on to be my longest "relationship" was a guy of Middle Eastern background whom I would see for the next seven years. I still know nothing about him. I knew him as Ahmed. He was in his mids when we met. He mentioned once that he was married. He contacted me either on a special phone, or with a secret email account.
There was no point paying for an hour. He could never book an appointment, so it was always on short notice. He'd call and if I was home and able to do it, I would. I'd have to leave the door unlocked: Ahmed wasn't a bad-looking guy, so it was fun and exciting at first, but as the months ticked by it became routine. He was like the politician. He wanted it exactly the same every time. He always had the dominant role in the sex stuff, but as soon as it was over he was a nice guy.
A couple of times when I was sick, he left me cold and flu tablets and some soup at the grocer next door.
He'd sometimes see me twice a week. One time he got me to organise a threesome, which I thought might be fun but he had a script. He was to be in the room with the other boy and I had to come in without speaking, stand there, do what he wanted me to do, and leave without saying a word. We did a few of those over the years and they were never very successful because he was so particular.
You just couldn't get into it. Maybe 50 per cent of my clients lived a straight life, and probably 40 per cent of them were in relationships with women. I came to realise that sex work was real work, just like that of a therapist, a masseur or hairdresser. There is a human need for intimacy and friendship, and for whatever reason my clients had to use an escort for that.
I was seeing some amazing, great-looking, normal people who used my service as it was the only way they could fill that need for connection. There was not a lot of competition in those early years, around I was making a lot of money and it changed my life. I'd never had money before. But I spent it as fast as it came in. Rent was expensive. My personal trainer cost a bit. I was getting laser treatment trying to look good.
When I'd go out and party with friends, I spent way, way more money than previously. I was making less money. This was deflating. At 25, now I was the old, crusty one.
One of my my best regulars was a periodontist. He sometimes worked in emergency at a hospital and would come in the early morning after his shift. He'd do cocaine and we'd drink expensive champagne. I didn't like drugs but I did drink.