The Truth: Part 9

I message Dean on facebook.

Me: Hey Dean, I know it’s probably none of my business but I was looking up brothels online and I found one called Knight Call and I was looking thru the list of escorts and I found one that oddly looked just like you.

Dean: u little shit i told you to look up boyz delivered. yes it is me and if you say one word to blaire I’m gonna fucking kill you.

Me: Don’t worry its none of my business I’m not going to tell her. I was just wondering if it was a good job?

Dean: yeah its ok. I get lots of cash and I only have to go on dinners with these old people, its really easy.

Me: Would you be able to get me an interview?

Dean: Come in monday at 7:30pm the address is ————-. Just don’t tell blaire or else ill kill you! 

I told Blaire 5 minutes after she walked in the door. I couldn’t help it: the secret was too big and she was already thinking out loud earlier that she believed he was dealing drugs or something, so she was on track to figuring it out soon anyway.

“Oh well, I’ll wait till he tells me himself before I say anything,” Blaire says.

“So you’re still going to see him?” I ask, kind of confused that she didn’t get turned off by his profession.

“Yeah of course. It’s none of my business and I like him.” Blaire was always above everyone else’ in the open-minded department.

“Well, he got me an interview with a place called Knight Call,” I embarrassingly say.

“O-M-G Cody! What!?” she howls.

“Yeah, he said he just does dinners and stuff with the clients and I really need money so I’m just going to go to this interview and see how it goes.”

“Wow, just be careful, ok babe?” She grabs my hand.

“I will.”

*********************************************

 

I was walking to the interview which took place in Kings Cross; the derelict area of Sydney where bogans (think red-necks) roam, drugs are abundant, and prostitutes hangout on the streets. I managed to get to the brothel, which was down a narrow street that lay hidden from all the excitement from the main square in the Cross.

I hung around the corner of a large hotel, peeking at the normal-looking house with suspicion. Three boys were laughing and walked up to the door, rung a bell, waited a few seconds, then were let inside by a man I couldn’t see… presumably the boss/owner/my interviewer. It was fairly obvious that the boys were escorts and not clients.

I felt like throwing up.

I take three deep breaths and walk towards the house. I try and calm my trembling hands. I make it to the door and look for a doorbell. It was dark, the small light that illuminated the doorway was hardly bright enough to see much. Despite the darkness I find the doorbell, a small white one on the doorframe.

I almost ring the bell when a surge of panic races through my body and I bolt down the street. I lean against a brick wall and steady my breathing. I think to myself over and over it’s ok. It’s. ok. This interview is not a contract. I can do whatever I want. 

I almost build enough courage to walk back to the door when I notice an older man walking towards me. The older man (who was also a little overweight) pauses when he passes by me and looks me up and down. He smiles. I don’t. The man lets out a huff and continues up the street, right to the doorstep of the brothel. He rings the bell, and is let inside by, presumably, the same man who let in the boys earlier.

I take a minute to truly calm my nerves. It was 7:45 by that point and I was late for the interview. I took one last deep breath, walked up the the door, and rang the bell.

I wait a couple seconds then hear someone walking towards the door, he then has a slight struggle with the door knob. I take one last deep breath when the door swings open. Standing there is and older gentleman who looks as if he’s had Botox or some sort of facial surgery to look younger. Beyond the unknown facial reconstruction he looked well, but you could see the cracks in his complexion, giving away his true age. He was definitely in his late 50’s, maybe even his 60’s. He had a natural build and a super-white smile as he said, “Hello. Please come in.”

He holds the door open for me as I walk inside, “Thank you,” I say with a mousey tone.

The older man leads me into a small office that had a large television on one wall that was displaying pictures of boys. Opposite the tv was a long desk with two computers on it. The walls were painted a deep red, a buddha head rested on a stand close to the door. A glass coffee table sat in the middle of the office, with a black leather couch behind it.

The man shakes my hand, “Hi, my name is Pete. You must be Cody.”

I shake his hand limply, “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“Well you sure wouldn’t be a client!” He chuckles, “Please sit down.” Pete gestures at one of the two office chairs that sat at the long desk with the computers on it.

I sit down and take a deep breath.

“So Cody, where are you from?” Pete says, grabbing a paper and pen.

“I’m from Canada.” I say trying to hide the shake in my voice. I hold my hands in my lap and try to keep them from trembling.

“Beautiful country. How long have you been in Australia?”

“Almost two weeks.”

“How do you like it?” Pete asks, putting on square reading glasses.

“It’s alright. A lot colder than I expected.” I let out a nervous laugh.

“Well you came here at the wrong time, we are just heading into winter.”

“I guess I just didn’t expect winter to be this cold.”

Pete is silent for a couple seconds as he jots something down on the paper, then he looks up and says, “How old are you?”

“Twenty.” I reply. Pete writes it down.

“We’ll keep you at twenty on the books to avoid you from getting all the pedophiles. You’ll still be in that market because you look younger than 18 but you’ll manage to avoid the total creeps.”

“Oh… ok, thanks,” was my only response.

Pete then asks me questions like how tall I was, my weight, measured my chest, etc. After Pete writes all of my measurements down he looks at me and asks, “So are you a top or a bottom?”

“Oh, I don’t want to have sex with the clients.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know Dean, and he said I could just do dinners and stuff with them.”

Pete laughs, “Yeah, Dean does a lot more than just dinners, let me tell you. Listen Cody, if you want to make any sort of money here you need to do at least something sexual. Nobody wants just dinner.”

“But I don’t want to have sex with them.”

“Well I can put you in the books as dinners only, but to be honest we get clients in here looking for ‘just dinner’ about once in a blue moon. You’ll just be sitting here every shift with no money to take home. You’ll be wasting your time.”

I had to make a quick decision. Did I want to sleep with them and make more money? Did I want to risk being dinners only? Or should I shake his hand and say thanks for the opportunity but this isn’t going to work for me?

I clear my throat, “Top. I’m a top only.”

Pete smiles and writes it down on the paper and says, “You don’t want to be a bottom for them?”

“No,” I try and say firmly, “I want to keep that for my personal life. If I’m going to do this I want to save at least something for myself.” That was good enough reason for me to be considering sex with clients.

“How big is your cock?”

I blush and don’t say anything. Pete just sits there clicking his pen, looking at me with judgemental eyes. I think Pete took my pause as a sign that I was really small, but the truth was that I was embarrassed. I’d never measured my penis before, but my limited sexual experiences led me to learn that I was above average based on the reactions of my sexual partners once they saw my member. Average in my mind was between 6 and 7 inches, so based on that reasoning alone I managed to say out loud, “8 inches.”

Pete nods and writes it down, “Ok last question, and this is actually the most difficult one for most people: what do you want your name to be?”

Against all better judgement, I pick out the worst, most unsexiest name known to all humanity. It’s not bad when it’s used just on regular human beings, but it’s terrible when used as name that’s supposed to be sexy.

The name I used came from and old conversation I had with my sister once when I was little. We both wanted to be con artists and came up with fake names for each other, and the name I used (which is now tainted to me) was…

“Carl,” I almost blurt out, “I want to be Carl.”

“Well CARL, welcome to Knight Call.”

 

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