OutUK's Adrian Gillan with a fictional account of Darren's long hot summer
when he sold his student body for cash.
"Cute, fit, slim 23 year old white guy shows off for cash - no phone wankers or
time wasters please."
The very first time: no money for food and needed it quick. I'd too much pride to
borrow from family or friends and there was the chat-line number, just a few
pence a minute. I pitched my 'sell'. First punter was round within the hour and
an hour later it was cash in cock-filled hand. Tummy filled. Result.
I never travelled. They had to come and get it. Travel meant time and time meant
money, quite apart from the predictable unwanted wild goose chases. Besides, I liked
working from home - I knew exactly what to say and do, and how to pace every move.
No nasty surprises. Most business came round in the evening - either early enough
for the guy to travel, make an evening of it and get back for cocoa - or so late
that he was just desperate and horny enough to get his shoes on - and his rocks off.
Nearly all clients were decent, generally timid and vulnerable folk, from twenties
to seventies. All sorts: bankers, pensioners, postmen, students. There were lots
of bi's and closets naturally and by no means all of them old. I was just what
they wanted: something to watch, nothing too threatening or unsafe. It was just a show.
Some guys didn't want to even pleasure themselves when watching, but waited until they got
back home. I had found a rich little niche that worked for me out on the meat market.
I didn't mind just being looked at and fondled a bit. I remained in control, and
felt safe. If I trusted a guy and he wasn't too rank then I'd maybe let him suck -
but only for extra. Sometimes they wouldn't even want me to shoot so I could put
the red light on again once they were gone and earn double that day.
It's fine knowing you can supply a demand, but another matter entirely finding it.
Experience quickly taught me to favour the phone line route, since quicker and
more direct and you could sooner tell if someone was a psycho or - worse - a
time-waster. Also that line was cheap back then - cheaper than print ads and
faster than the internet anyway. And no, I never hung around street corners.
Give the pitch in 30 words or less - full of info, no question unanswered -
and then bring it to a head with, "If you're genuine, here's my number. Call
me in five." Clinch it or ditch it. Go big or go home. Of which negotiations
only about one in ten convert - if you're lucky. But cast your net wide and
you do pull them in. I would be brutal with my scatter and move on, catching
the pickings in my wake.
Yet I'd never agree to have anyone over who didn't call or text me with a known
number just "as they were setting off" first, so I knew they were pretty much on
their way and I had a number I could in theory hand to police if things - heaven
forbid - ever got nasty.
Punter called: five minutes away. A scene is quickly set. Photos turned; identifying
items slid away; blinds lowered and lamps shone; lucky boxers donned; ambient CD put
on; all money or sharp objects removed from view. The upper room is also prepared.
Again, seats and mirrors are well angled; cushions, tissues and towels; porn open
on the PC to get me going. And, action.
Waiting, waiting: with my youthful glands full and ready to flow. Even feeling quite
horny. Eye on the clock. Will he show? He did call me as requested as he set out
so a good sign, but they do go chicken. It ain't over 'til the fat lady's shot her
load and the money's in the bank. I was quite good at filtering out trouble at source
though, from their voices on the line, both trouble-makers and time-wasters.
At last: the first sight: putting them at ease. A broad smile: think warm eyes.
The same script always: "Easy journey, not so far is it? Gorgeous day! Not too
wet I hope? Watch the step. Like the place? Unusual isn't it? Would you mind:
shoes. Sound like Gran, don't I? Water or juice? Any questions? I'll just go over
the ground rules and remind you what I do, and what I don't do." Repeat your terms.
Daft not to.
About half paid up front as if post-coital payment was just too cheesy. I always liked
that. It relaxed me to know they planned on enjoying me and it would take a real
cock up - or cock down - to blow it all away. I normally checked up front - once
I'd charmed them a while - "OK for you am I?" They always said yes, and I was then
covered should they later claim I didn't do it for them and refused to pay.
I loved the money. I loved to smell it after they'd gone - flatten out the wrinkles.
It always felt beautifully debauched - payment for sexual services rendered. And
very direct is the oldest profession: harvest of own fruits. I would quite truly
get turned on by the money alone. See it heaping, day by day.
Then when you feel the guy's mind relax and start to visually undress you, just flick
that switch and -with the music playing - get on with the job. Start in front of
the mirror. Cut the punter out, go into your own private world. A little concentration
and the pleasure begins. Slowly, staring, rubbing, playing - at the very least, look
like you're enjoying it.
Fondling though my old jeans to get hard; then off with the top; then pop goes the
fly buttons, one, two, three and swoosh, away. I never worked in socks - unless by
request - so just me and my own thinly veiled manhood remained.
More fondling and then - plop, boing - it's whipped out hard, with the balls, cupped
and fondled. Always a relief this moment, since you know the rest's a breeze hereon
in - like taking candy from a babe. A side-on pose and then turn, to gasps of "Nice
arse" - prompting a few extra seconds' lingering just to please. And front again.
Closer, for sir's touch: his gentle groping of the balls, scratching the light
downy fur, all shorn back, before stalling for a moment on the chest, then feeling
the curves of your buns. Bolder - and a timid grasping of the dick, breaking into
a wank - either too firm or not firm enough. Face too near provokes a pull-away "tut".
The same for a fondle that brings you too close too soon.
On track four of the CD by now and I know almost instinctively to change the pace
and scene - to draw back and rebuild the charge. Up stairs.
Remember to take those
cast-off boxers to sit on in front of the PC screen to take up the sweat.
Many don't get their dick out until well into things, if at all. I could rarely
look when they did - if they were really rather unattractive I would just glaze
over as if in bliss. Always jealous if the client started to get more into my
porn than me.
Of course, I had a bit of a laugh with the regulars - those I saw at least once
a week - not least the older ones who wheezed and gasped away, through teeth
bright yellow and often not their own. And I'd sometimes really get into the
younger ones - touch them and get off every bit as much as they did on me.
No fucking or kissing though. If anyone ever got carried away, especially after
my initial reminder, I'd get briefly pretty cross and that would be the end of
My eyes subtly clock the clock. He arrived at such and such, so his hour is almost
due. Does he want his full fix or might sooner be better? I ask. Might just be
able to squeeze another in before close of play. I need a good three hours' break
for that, just to be sure - second comings never were easy.
Living on the breadline as I briefly was, I enjoyed the knife-edge thrill and
challenge of this existence: will I or won't I earn tonight? Some nights you'd be
searching for hours and nothing - probably with a few time-wasters thrown in for
your trouble. Other nights you'd strike early and then relax - a night-off so to
speak. Other nights you'd hit lucky almost at the final hour, and all the more
satisfaction for it, though I hated working after midnight - the waste of time, the
stress of it all.
I soon dragged myself up above mere hand to mouth, to kick the financial ball
ahead and save - I opened up envelopes for forthcoming needs - a bill, a holiday,
a big night out and such. I began to claim back some control over my buffeted,
Spartan student life - felt like a hunter gatherer, farming my own natural assets.
I remember it was a liberating feeling, drawing back to your own
basic primitive resource to put food on table and keep wolf from door.
Yet addictive though sex for money can indeed be, the moment I had some proper
dosh in my hands from other more orthodox means, I remember breathing a huge sigh
of relief. I was glad to get my own life back - my sexual and social life. I realised
I needed to revive the almost forgotten notion of sex-for-pleasure - oh and something
Looking back, I was not and am not ashamed of those long summer months. I did
what I felt I had to, to keep body and soul together - it wasn't easy and I managed.
No bosses, no mess, no red tape - just punter upon punter to please with your own skin and bone.
And boy, did I please them, time after time!
In Great Britain (England, Wales and Scotland),
the act of engaging in sex as part of an exchange of sexual services for money is legal, but a number of
related activities, including soliciting in a public place, kerb crawling, owning or managing a brothel,
pimping and pandering, are crimes. In Northern Ireland, which previously had similar laws, paying for sex became illegal
from 1 June 2015.
Although the age of consent is 16 throughout the United Kingdom, it is illegal to buy sex from a person
under 18 where the perpetrator does not reasonably believe they are 18 or over.
Working as a prostitute in private is not an offence, and neither is working as an outcall escort, nor is it
illegal for prostitutes to sell sex at a brothel provided they are not involved in management or control of the
brothel. Street prostitution, however, is illegal.
This is just a summary of the current law as we understand it. If you are in any doubt please consult a solicitor.