Category Archives: thailand

The Truth: Part 11

“Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it.”
― Richard Adams, Watership Down

Pete opens the door to the boy’s room. Flashes go through my mind about what my eyes were about to register. Will I see boys shooting heroine? Will the boys going to be juvenile detention burnouts with those prison-murder-tears tattooed under their eyes? Will these boys eat me alive and spit me out a hard, cold, cynical man with no hope left in humanity? I begin to think that I’m not not up for this anymore. I am what you call an introverted extrovert: I am shy and complacent in certain situations, wild and unpredictable in others. Right at that time I was feeling shy and complacent, like I was being thrown to the dogs. I start to think If I run now will it be less embarrassing than if I have to run later? 

For the sake of keeping an interesting story I would like to be able to say the door swung open and there were twenty boys eating live chickens while cooking crystal meth and having an orgy on the couch. But what happened was: the door swung open and I saw six boys scattered about the room watching tv. There was nothing horribly abnormal about the scene.

“Hello boys,” Pete speaks up, “We have a new boy starting today. His name is-” Pete pauses and turns to me, “What is your name again?”

“Cody- I MEAN CARL!” I nearly shriek, so embarrassed that I just gave away my entire identity. Pete continues introducing me while I go pale white. I had just given away my real name. I think to myself, People will know of my sins. I must move out of this country. Tonight I’ll be on the next plane home. I broke the only rule. Was it a rule? I CANT EVEN REMEMBER THE RULES! What am I doing? They are all staring at me. I should say something. Anything. 

“Hi,” I whimpered, and then sank down onto a couch that was directly and conveniently behind me. Pete finishes talking and heads back into the office. The boys continue to stare for a second before turing their heads back around to watch the tv. I silently pray that no one tries to come over and talk to me. Right when I’m done my farce prayer, a boy whose name I can’t remember came over and introduced himself.

“What’s your name again?” The boy asked.

“Carl.” I try to announce confidently.

“Yeah… right.” The boy said while rolling his eyes. He goes back to his original place in the room.

The boys room was larger than I expected. It was just a single room, but one where the back half and the front half were divided by a step down. The back half was smaller and had just a desk and an L-couch in the corner. The front half widened out and had a couch lining the wall on the left, fully furnished kitchen on the right. In the middle was a small glass coffee table, and by the  back patio doors was a television.

I sit there in silence for nearly three hours while I observe the boys from the corner of the room.  There was a skinny blond guy on the far couch texting on his phone, an older white man watching whatever was on the tv, there was the guy that introduced himself to me, and then three boys who were obviously foreign and were only speaking in Spanish to one another.

***Now there are two things you need to know before I continue this story. One is that during my time at Knight Call I had to learn two names for everyone (their real names and their working names) and be able to decide when it was appropriate to use which name, a feat that isn’t as simple or as easy as you’d think. But for simplicity of the story, I’m only going to give you one name for everyone except for me (rejoice!). The second thing I need you to know is that I am not here to ‘out’ boys that were escorting. Its a private and personal decision. So to protect the identities of certain people in this story, I can only use their pseudo-names and very generic descriptions.***

The older gentleman turns to me, “Have you done escorting before?”

“No. I haven’t.” I reply, controlling the shake in my voice.

“Well it’s not that hard, you just go up there,” He points up towards the ceiling/second floor, “Fuck em’ like you love them, and then leave.”

“Cool,” is the only word in my vocabulary at that point. I realised that I  was sitting like a lady in church; knees together, back straight, hands in my lap. I couldn’t remember if I had been sitting like that for the past few hours but I hoped not, otherwise I would’ve looked like a freak.

The skinny blond boy comes over to me as I try to find a more humane way to sit on the couch. I find an equally-awkward position as he plops down beside me.

“Hi, I’m Nick,” He says as he extends his hand for me to shake.

I shake and reply, “Hi Nick, I’m Carl.

“Where are you from?” He asks.


“Oh cool! And how long have you been in Australia?”

“Almost two weeks now.” I reply.

I noticed that while I was replying he was doing a scan of my features and clothing (you have to remember that at this point I still had a mohawk and spiral plugs in my ears). He seemed genuinely interested in talking to me, but I could also sense some judgement.

“You’ll love Sydney. I was born here.”

“Oh wow, I haven’t actually met someone who was born in this city yet.”

“Really? Wow.” He pauses, “Do you smoke?” He asks while taking out a pack of cigs.

“I quit two months ago but could really use one now.” I reply, not knowing how much I wanted a smoke until I had seen the packet in his hands.

I follow Nick outside into the backyard, which is small and fenced in with wooden seats around a wooden coffee table. Plants lined the perimeter of the fence, which made it feel peaceful. Nick hands me a cigarette and takes one for himself.

He lights his cigarette and then lights mine. I give him my thanks.

We are silent while we take our first drags, then Nick speaks up, “So I overheard you say that you’ve never been an escort before.”

“Yes, that is correct,” I respond.

“Ok, well here are the things you need to know…”





The Truth: Part 10


I was at Scott’s memorial, which was held at a large venue on Oxford Street and was filled with all sorts of characters. There were people who had starred alongside him in musicals, old friends who were like family, his actual family, neighbours and people he hadn’t seen in years. Everyone was there.

I hadn’t cried in front of people yet, and the only time I cried about his death was the day I got the call and found out: I was in Canada and my friend just told me the police came to his house and told him that Scott was dead. I almost dropped the phone. We finished the conversation and I was completely emotionless when my mom asked me what was wrong. I just nonchalantly replied that Scott was dead. I then proceeded to walk around like a zombie, making breakfast and taking a shower. I had to help my cousin move that morning, so I got into my old truck (that my parents kept) by myself and sat for a second before turning on the ignition. I put the truck in gear and drive down the driveway, up the gravel road and towards the highway. Once I hit the pavement of the highway I pushed the gas-pedal down to the floor and screamed at the top of my lungs, “YOU FUCKING CUNT!” I repeatedly swear while my truck reaches 160kph. After screaming I burst into tears and cry so uncontrollably that I had to pull over in fear of getting into an accident.

At the memorial we drank Sambuca shots and tried our hardest to keep things lighthearted, believing Scott would want it that way. I met one of Scott’s old friends, a father figure to Scott during the times when Scott didn’t have any resemblance of a family of his own. I had never met him before.

He shakes my hand, “I’m happy to finally meet you,” his voice is soft and soothing, “Scott told me so many wonderful things about you. You were very special to him.”

Then, randomly and uncontrollably, tears burst out of my eyes as I grab at him and hug him.


I agreed to start working at the brothel the following Monday. Blaire told me I should keep shopping around for real jobs and that escorting should only be a temporary fix. I agree and continue my job search.

It was also time for me to move out of Blaire’s apartment, so I headed back to the hostel I was staying in before. My hostel was eerily close to Knight Call.

Over the next couple days I applied to many jobs and landed an interview for just one. It was a job that involved handing out flyers on the street and trying to get people to donate to kids with cancer. I went to the interview, killed it, and the next day was offered a full-time position. I accepted. The cancer kids job wanted me to start Monday.

I had to make a decision: which job should I do? To most people the choice would be easy, but for some reason I couldn’t help but ponder the possibilities of working in a brothel. The prospect terrified me, yet filled me with adventure. I knew it had the potential to destroy me mentally, to ravage my personality, to overbear me with depression. But I also knew that it could  be empowering, sexy even. Guys would want me and even pay for me. I wasn’t a faceless nobody, people would know me and pay for my time and company.

The other escorts I’d have to work with could be drug addicts, rapists, or murderers. This prospect was also terrifying. But even then I thought of adventure, because who would want to work with mundane people when you could have the possibility of working with Sydney’s most crazy and spontaneous? I imagine young guys like me sitting on a couch shooting up heroine, and I am suddenly filled with passion.

Passion is a weird word. By definition is means a strong and barely controllable emotion. The thought of working in a brothel filled me with just that. It evoked a strong and uncontrollable emotion inside of me, the most uncontrollable emotion of all: curiosity. I was filled with passionate curiosity. I had the opportunity to walk down into Sydney’s underbelly and discover a whole new world for myself.

So on that Sunday night I had two choices, and for all selfish and egotistical reasons I decided to adventure into Sydney’s belly.

Once again walking up to Knight Call I had a mini panic attack. It’s almost 8pm. Pete told me that normal shifts start at 7pm but I should come in later so I’m not flooding in with all the other boys. He also got me to email him a picture of my body that he could post online for the website.

I ring the bell at the front door. I could hear someone rustling towards it, and then it swings open and I see that, unsurprisingly, it’s Pete.

“Why hello Carl, how are you?” Pete almost purrs (Pete always reminded me of a cat, mischievous and cunning and will always get what he wants).

“I’m good,” I reply.

“Good,” Pete nods, “Well I guess I’ll start showing you around now. The first thing you need to know is that the bell you are ringing is called the ‘client’ bell.” Pete pushes aside some plants covering the left wall inside the doorway, revealing a hidden grey doorbell, “This is the bell that the boys push when they want to be let in. Each bell makes a different noise so that we know if its a client by the door or an escort.”

Pete ushers me inside. We walk down the hall and past the office and come to a door on the left and stairs going up on the right. Pete pauses at the door, “This is the boy’s room. In there we have a kitchen, couches, a backyard for you guys to sit in the sun or smoke. Kitchen is fully furnished so you can cook if you want, we also have a television to keep you entertained. Sometimes it can get very… dull here.”

Pete doesn’t open the door to the room, instead we start walking up the stairs. We come to a bedroom with the door open.

“This is Room One,” Pete indicates, “Come inside.”

I step into the room after him. The walls were painted the same deep red as the office. The setup is very minimal, just a bed with disgusting red/brown/god-knows-what coloured mattress and pillow covers. On each side of the bed is a bedside table, and opposite the bed is a large dresser with a TV above it. The room also had two windows with white blinds on them.

Pete tells me that after each client we are responsible for making the rooms look tidy for the next one. The managers (there are four of them) are the ones that wash the sheet and towels, and Pete hires a cleaner once a week to clean the whole place at nighttime.

We head up a smaller set of stairs outside of Room One and come to a hallway. There is a toilet and a shower in the room to the right, and straight ahead is Room Two, which is almost identical to Room One except that its a bit smaller. Then we head up another set of stairs to the top floor, which is where Room Three is. Room One and Room Two have to share a bathroom and shower, but Room Three has it’s own bathroom on it’s floor, and it was also the biggest room.

We then head back down the flights of stairs and back into the office.

“This is usually how the whole thing works,” Pete explains, “You boys wait in the boy’s room. When a client rings the bell I let them in and bring them here, to the office. I show them pictures of you boys on the TV screen here,” Pete points to the TV, “The client will then tell me which boys he wants to interview. When that happens, I go into the boys room say which boys he wants, and one by one you’ll go into the office, introduce yourself and what you do, and then go back into the boys room. After all the boys have done the interview part, I go back into the office and the client chooses who he wants. When that happens I bring the client upstairs and put them in a room. Then I come down into the boys room and tell them which boy he wants. So, if you’re chosen, you come into the office,” Pete reaches into a cupboard beneath the TV, “And grab two white towels,” Pete pulls out the towels, “And then grab a bed sheet,” He takes a bed sheet out of the cupboard as well, its the same disgusting colour at the mattress covers in the rooms upstairs, “And a glass of water,” Pete points to a mini fridge beside the cupboard, on top of the fridge were glass cups, and presumably inside the fridge was the water. “And then you take all of this and go up inside the room. I suggest you make each client shower before doing anything. Make sure you lock the rooms as well, we’ve had a few incidences of other boys accidentally walking into the room.” Pete sets the towels and bed sheet down, “And the most important thing is: always get paid upfront. Don’t start anything until you’ve been given the cash. Legally I can’t give you the money, I can only get the money for renting the room, which I take before I bring the client up the stairs. It’s up to you boys to ask for your share of the cash when you’re in the room. You got that?”

“Yeah I think so,” I reply.

“Let’s bring you in to meet the boys,” Pete announces. A shot of nerves spikes through my body.

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.”


The Truth: Part 8


I was 19 and talking to a hot guy on Craigslist. His rippling abs, large chest, and square jawline convinced me to meet up with him. But I was scared of sex, and my previous experience with meeting a guy on Craigslist lead me to a man who had all the lights off in his house and covered his face as he took my hand and threw me in his bathroom (it ended with me bolting out of his house and crying in my truck as I drove home) so I decided to meet this guy in a nearby mall parking lot, thinking it would be safer. It was late, so I told my parents I was going out to get some food (great lie).

The guy had given me a description of his car and told me to meet him in the back of the lot. I was late, but pulling into the mall I easily spotted his vehicle and pulled up next to it. It was dark, but as he stepped out of the vehicle something was off; he didn’t look right. Before I was able to act he got into the passenger side of the vehicle and I had a sudden terrifying realisation that this wasn’t the guy that was in the photos.

“Who are you?” I asked with one hand on the door, ready to jump out.

“Its ok its ok, I know this is confusing but I represent the guy you were talking to on Craigslist.” The guy calmly said, he was about 35 and balding; but despite the balding he was cute. He held his hands out in front of him like he was trying to calm a wild animal.

“What the hell! This is so uncool!” I yell with a weirdly playful tone that makes me feel even more awkward. I have a weird condition where I don’t react to situations like how healthy people should.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry. I represent Mark (hot guy) as his porn manager.”


“Let me explain: Mark is bi, but he’s my friend and when he found out I ran a porn website he wanted in because he was broke and now he is one of my employees and co-owners. He likes you, but only wants to have sex with you on film. You have potential to become a star here.” (He didn’t actually ramble like this to me but I’m writing it like this to move this side story along faster) I realised he looked just as nervous as I was.

“Umm ok and no thank you.” I say, confused. I’m always confused.

“Ok ok, hear me out. Can we just chill in my car and talk, get to know each other and stuff, and then once you’re comfortable we can talk more about this.”

I don’t know if it was boredom or curiosity, but I said yes and we moved to his vehicle, reclined the front seats, and talked for about two hours. He ended up being a pretty cool guy, and funny as well. He told me that the porn is his side-business, and that he’s actually a big time manager at one of the biggest banks in Canada and travels a lot to represent the company. He tells me of the places he’s been to and I tell him of the places that I dreamed to go. For sake of not getting off track with the main story, I will summarise the ending to this: I say yes to doing porn on his website. He sucks my dick. We exchange numbers. A week later he calls and says he has my first porn job with a 65 year old man. I say no. He says I have to work my way from the bottom to get to the hotter men. We get in a fight. I tell him to fuck off (but politely). I never hear from him again.


So there I was, sitting on the porch of Dean’s apartment, having briefly contemplated escorting, realising that I’ve said yes to sex work before; even though it didn’t go anywhere (Thank fuck!).

Blaire and Dean go to the bedroom and have very loud sex for three hours while I try and sleep on the lounge. I lay there like a kid in a horror movie; wide eyed fetal position, disturbed by what I hear. After the three gruelling hours in which I didn’t sleep, a drunken and naked Blaire bursts out of Dean’s room.

“O-M-G Cody, are you still awake?” She asks, trying her best to pick up a towel and use it to cover herself.

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep.” I reply.

“Could you hear us?”

“Umm only a little bit. Not very much,” I lied.

“Thank god!” She exhausts, going wide eye and putting her hand on her heart, making the towel fall, “Because we’ve been having sex for hours!” She moves to a whisper, “He came like 5 times, he doesn’t last very long.” She starts laughing.

On queue, Dean walks out of the room naked.

Blaire laughs even harder, “I was just telling Cody that you don’t last that long in bed,” she nudges him on the shoulder.

Dean replies, “Pft, I can go for hours if I have too. But you know when you just want to go as many times as you can?”

“No, not really.” I reply.

“When you want to cum as many times as you can?”

“That sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me,” Blaire bursts out, giggling like a school girl, “you’re just covering for the fact you don’t last long in bed! I’m going to have a shower, and then we should get food, I’m starving!”

“Ok honey,” Dean says and leans in to kiss Blaire. I could tell Blaire found the pet name awkward.

Blaire runs off to the shower, almost tripping over her drooping towel. Then a very-naked Dean turns to me.

“Come into my room, I want to talk to you.” He says sternly.

I try hard to avoid looking at his penis, “Ok.”

I follow him into the room and he closes the door behind me. I sit on the corner of the bed while he stands in front of me, his pool-noodle hanging right in front of my face. I look away, embarrassed.

“What you’ve never seen a man naked before?” Dean asks smugly.

“Can’t you put on some clothes?” I request, keeping my gaze away from his body.

“Naw, I like being naked and it’s my house,” He bends down so that we are face-to-face, “So, I do have some friends who work as escorts. It’s big in the gay community here, and there’s a piece for you if you want it. I can get my friends to take care of you. Just search for a brothel called Boyz Delivered and apply online, but that’s only if you want it. You could make lots of money, trust me. I just want to help you out.”

The next day I’m at Blaire’s house. She went into the city so I was home alone. I open her computer and search Gay escorts in Sydney online and two brothels come up in the web search. I click on the one that wasn’t Boyz Delivered, going against what Dean had told me to do. I just had a feeling there was something hidden in his voice when he had told me the night before to go online. I scroll through the list of boys (escorts) and come across what I already expected to be there: right in front of my face, in the list of escorts, was Dean.


The Truth: Part 7

Dean just told me that he was an escort, “Really?” I ask.

“Yeah I am. It’s not even that bad. After I broke my ribs I couldn’t do modelling for a while but really needed money, now I’m making more money than ever.” He says, leaning back and crossing his arms. He had a twinkle of mischief in his eye and I didn’t know if I could trust him.

“Well I guess whatever works for you, but I wouldn’t do it.” I say, shying away from Dean’s gaze.

He was undoubtedly attractive, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he made a lot of money being an escort. Hell, if I was some rich old fart I would probably pay for him.

“Oh come on, the old men like the little twinkies. You’d do so well!” Dean throws his hands in the air, cheeky smile spread wide across his face. “I could give you the number of the brothel I’m based in and you could call and set up an interview with the manager.”

“No I’m not going to do it!” I hiss, surprising myself with the amount of hatred I had in my voice.

Blaire walks in just as I had finished talking, “You’re not going to do what?” She looked stunning after fixing herself up, despite her drunkenness.

Dean bursts out into and uncontrollable laugh. He leans back in his chair and howls with delight. Blaire and I give each other a confused look, and before I could say something, Dean blurts out through the laughter, “Oh my god I just made twinkie think that I was an escort and he was thinking about becoming one as well.”

Blaire sounds unimpressed when she asks, “Who is twinkie?”

Dead laughs even harder and points at me. His deep chuckle seemed to reverberate through my disconcerted body. Blaire can’t help but also let out a little chuckle, and I had began to wish I hadn’t come here.

“To be fair,” I say in my defence, “I didn’t actually think about becoming an escort.”

“Bullshit!” Dean blurts, his chuckling starts to simmer down, “I saw it in your eyes. You totally thought about it. It’s ok Twinkie, I won’t judge you.”

To be honest, I didn’t know if I did subconsciously think about it. Would being an escort even be that bad? I was sure that the money was good, but I knew I wasn’t cut out for it. It wasn’t who I was raised to be, it was against my morals. But for the second time that night the thought had seemed to briefly cross my mind.

I grew up on a ranch in rural Alberta, Canada. Hick town, rednecks, cow town, and rough necks are all words to describe the area and people that I grew up around. My life was filled with Oil field workers, ranchers, and religious bigots: aka closed-minded small town folk. Raised in a religious family myself, I had grown up learning that sex was basically the root of all evil. Someone was the spawn of satan if they had premarital sex. Even normal teenage things such as masturbation was so looked down upon that it was basically a sin to even mention it, which was stupid because we all knew that we had tried it at LEAST once in our lives.

But anyways, off point. So I had grown up around all these people that believed sex was insane, at least before marriage (but after marriage it didn’t matter anymore. You could have sweet BDSM with your significant other and God would think it was fine because you both signed a piece of paper). Asia had cured me of some of my religious misgivings, but I still had an adverse feeling towards sex. It was the one thing that was brainwashed into my head as child: sex was bad. Sex was bad. Sex was bad. So the fact that I even contemplated for one second that escorting would be a good idea was giving me anxiety.

I didn’t want to be a dirty prostitute. I had morals. I was a good person. Something in my head was telling me that this wouldn’t be the last time selling my body would be the fore-front of conversation. That hockey player who tried to sell me off to the NHL wasn’t my only run in with sex and money before Sydney. There was a little elephant in the historical room of my mind, and it all had to do with a porn star, a mall parking lot (And I’m not talking about the mall parking lot where I sold my dirty underwear to a guy for $50 once when I was 18) and a porn star recruiter.

The Truth: Part 6

I lean in closer, unsure if I had heard him correctly, “What?”

“I’ll give you two-hundred dollars to suck your cock. You know, a favour for a favour.” The man says nonchalantly, raising his eyebrows and straightening his back.

I couldn’t believe what he had just said. I sat there with a confused look on my face, trying to mentally process this disgraceful offer. In my deep thought I take a few seconds to reply to the old man.

“No,” I try to say with conviction and finality.

“You stopped to think about it,” the old man believes, “Would you say yes if I offered five-hundred dollars?”

I was mentally stuck. This wasn’t my first (or even second) dabble in being offered money for sexual favours. I was reminded of Canada and how I had once hooked up with a 36 year old hockey player who, after (the admittedly terrible) intercourse, told me that he was a pimp for the National Hockey League and was ‘recruiting’ new escorts to sleep with NHL players. He told me that being gay in hockey could ruin a player’s career, so a lot of the players who had gay or bi tendencies hired male-escorts on the side. The payment would be well and full: $1,200 for an hour or two. The high payment was for discretion and quality. I wasn’t sure if I had fit in the category of quality, so the offer made me take a mental step back. But even still, I seriously considered the offer. Ultimately I declined because I was only 18 and was scared that I’d be ruined mentally because of it, not to mention the horror it would bring upon my family if they found out. Plus I had so little experience with sex, and sex itself was something that scared me.

“I said no!” I say with aggravation, turning away from the old man.

The man walks around my barstool to come face-to-face with me again. I try to turn away once more but he grabs my shoulder, leans in close and says, “This is my final offer. One thousand dollars.”

“One thousand dollars!? To just suck my dick?” I say too loud as I notice some people turn around to look at me, I lower my voice, “How do I know that you’re not playing around with me?”

“I’ll take the money out of the ATM before we hop in a cab so you can see it. I live very close, so you can come back to mine, have a few drinks, I’ll suck you, you blow, you leave with one-thousand dollars. Easiest money you’ll ever make.”

Although I thought the man was crazy for wanting to spend that much money on me, I couldn’t help but ponder his offer: I really did need the money, having only arrived in Sydney with pocket change that I had almost already spent and I was hoping to go apartment-hunting in the next few days, which I knew was an expensive endeavour.

Better judgement took hold of me, “I said no,” I barked, trying to hide the fact I contemplated his offer for a second, “I’m not that kind of person.”

The old man was about to say something when Blaire and Dean walked up.

“We are going to leave,” Dean said, holding Blaire under his arm. Blaire had a huge smile across her face; at least someone was still having a good time. The old man had walked away, scared off by their entrance.

“Where are we going?” I asked while watching the old man leave.

Blaire answered with a giddy smile, “We are gonna go hangout at Dean’s apartment. He lives just around the corner.”

Dean’s apartment was a five minute walk from the club. Blaire and Dean walked beside each other the whole way, giggling and laughing as I straggled behind them. Dean didn’t seem too interested in talking to me, so I strolled a fair distance behind them.

The apartment was a run-down and very small. It was a two bedroom with an open living area and kitchen. Dean’s bedroom was off to the side and connected to the balcony. The other bedroom was down a narrow hallway: beyond that was the bathroom.

I stepped on the 5th story balcony for a cigarette. Dean followed me while Blaire ran off to fix herself up in the bathroom. I sat on one of the white plastic lawn chairs while Dean sat on the other. We sat facing each other in awkward silence for a few seconds, then Dean spoke up,

“So what are you doing for work, Twinky?” He said with a crooked smile.

“Twinky?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yeah, because you’re white and you’re a twink.” He says, letting out a giant roaring laugh.

I let out a fake, courteous giggle, “Oh I see. I am currently looking for work at the moment.”

“Have you done modelling?”

“I have done an outdoor freelance shoot with my sister once, why do you ask?”

“Well because you’re a cute guy. I would do you,” I was taken aback, I’ve never had a straight guy tell me that (seriously) before, Dean continues, “Haha, I’m just kidding. You are a good looking guy though. If I were gay I would totally bang you. You like it up the ass don’t you?”

I was shocked at his vulgarity, “I don’t really know. I haven’t had sex that many times.”

“You don’t need to lie to me; I bet you’re a little slut. A little bottom slut who likes daddies.”

I was even more shocked and didn’t know how to respond. Dean had mentioned earlier that he had a lot of gay friends, so I admired his comfort and openness with homoerotic topics.

Before I was able to respond to him, Dean adds, “You should become an escort. I am one.”

Although this was taken in Thailand, it is a good depiction of what I looked like on this night.

Although this was taken in Thailand, it is a good depiction of what I looked like on this night.

The Truth: Part 4

I got ready for my night out. I came to Sydney with only two pars of pants, two pairs of shorts, sandals and four t-shirts; so I didn’t have much of an outfit. It was so cold that I went out and bought a sweater, a big blue one with the words Australia written across the front with a kangaroo below it. I knew I was going to look like the biggest tourist, but it was the first semi-decent sweater I could find that was cheap and near to my hostel.

I had a mohawk at this point, with spiral plugs in my ears. I knew


plugs and mohawk

In Bangkok with Nicki, plugs and mohawks galore

that I wouldn’t be looking in my best form. But it wasn’t about looking good, was it?

Asia was all about discovering myself. I had been dealing with anxiety and self-esteem issues before travelling to Southeast Asia. At one point in my life I was unable to leave my own house without feeling nauseous and nervous. I’ve had a few panic attacks back before I travelled, but Asia made me a different person. I smiled more, I didn’t care as much what people thought of me. My self-esteem was as high as it’s ever been and I was starting to finally feel comfortable with who I was. I had more confidence than ever before.

So with my giant blue sweater, my dirty pants, and my disgusting sandals, I walked to the club.

Oxford street was buzzing. It was a Sunday night, many people were walking around in groups. It was obviously the gay street. Boys walked by wearing designer clothes, gawking at my abhorrent attire. Drags queens strutted in their high-heels, chins held high, walking proud and with meaning. Muscle men walked around in singlets (wife-beaters) despite the cold temperatures.

I managed to find my way to a club named Stonewall. It looked busy from the outside, and there were a lot of men standing outside smoking. I took a deep breath, and stepped towards the front entrance.

“ID please,” the security guard said sternly.

“Oh here.” I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out my wallet. I flipped my wallet open and showed him my ID.

“From Canada?” Security asks.

“Yeah, here on my Work Holiday.” I say nervously, twiddling my fingers.

“Cool, have a good night.”

I take another deep breath before I step into the club.

The music was loud and people were everywhere. Men keep glancing over with shock or disgust, and I start to think that this is a bad idea. I head straight for the bar.

“What kind of beer do you have here?” I ask the bartender. He gives me a strange look.

“Well it depends what you are looking for,” He replies, sounding impatient.

“I’m not from here. Can you just give the the cheapest beer?” I say, trying to hurry up this interaction.

The bartender rolls his eyes, “A bottle? A schooner? Mate you’ll have to be more specific.”

A bottle and a what-what? I say in my head.

“A bottle of your cheapest beer,” I say unconfidently, wondering if he just insulted me with some weird Aussie lingo… Schooner? What the fuck is that? 

The bartender nods and goes to grab me a bottle of beer. I honestly can’t remember what brand it was. He gives me my beer and I pay him and leave a tip: such a Canadian thing to do.

I sit down on one of the many stools around the bar. Although the music was loud, the ‘downstairs’ part of Stonewall is actually more like a normal bar, off to the side you have the pokies (slot machines) in a separate room, and then down the hall from there is a secluded bar where you can sit and enjoy a chat. Up the stairs is the second and third level, and that’s where you go to dance. I resorted to stay on the non-dancing level, although there was plenty of drunk dancing from other people anyway.

So alone I sat, sipping my beer, looking out to the crowd. People were dancing and shouting, but most of all they were observing. Everyone was checking everyone else out. No one was safe. The minute someone would walk by another person, they would quickly do a ‘face and ass’ check, which is quiet literally, checking out the face (and if it’s good looking) then check out the ass as they walk by. Nobody seemed to actually go up and talk to the people they seemed interested in, they just would hover their eyes over their body again and again and again. And once I noticed that behaviour, I also noticed that no one seemed to be dancing with anyone.

Yes, people were dancing with their friends. But no one seemed to be grinding with anyone, making out, or having any sort of affectionate contact. Everything was cut and dry. I was used to going to straight clubs in Canada where almost half the people were flirting with each other, making out, or grinding. It seemed odd to me that the men here were just undressing people with their eyes, and not attacking with their faces.

“You look sad,” someone said beside me. I jumped in my seat, and turned. A black man stood behind me.

“No I’m not sad, just deep in thought,” I say, trying to blow off the fact I just almost screamed from being startled.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, his eyes fixated in mine.

“Umm nothing really important.” I say, noticing that he was a little on the short side, but had a fairly handsome face.

“I’m Ronnie,” He says, I shake his hand.

“I’m Cody, nice to meet you.”

We start talking, and I find out that Ronnie is from New York. He has been living in Sydney for a while, but was going back to NYC soon. I told him that it was my first night in Sydney, and he took it upon himself to bring me to all the best clubs, in one night.

First: Is stonewall, and although I actually made my OWN way to stonewall, he is the one who actually showed me around. He brought me upstairs and to the pokies, we drink, we laugh. We meet a guy named Mike who is some big TV Manager, and who obviously was undressing me with his eyes. He wanted to join us on this unofficial club tour, so we all band together and head to…

Second: Arq. One of the biggest gay clubs in Sydney. Massive glass revolving doors at the entrance to two dance floors, one is downstairs and one is upstairs. We choose to go upstairs, and after being hit in the face with the revolving door we make it to the dance floor. Mike says he needs to go to the bathroom, and I follow him.

Now, growing up I was only in the presence of one drug: weed. And besides salvia, the only other drug I had ever done or seen in my lifetime was weed. I wasn’t a drug fan, but if people wanted to do it and it didn’t affect me, then I didn’t really care.

Mike starts doing lines of cocaine off the bathroom counter with some weird chick he just met. Which surprised and fascinated me because I was never in the presence of such blatant drug use before.

After Arq we went to…

Third (and last): Beresford. Beresford is actually a ‘straight-club’, but Sundays are gay-days. Beresford actually makes more money on the gay night than it does for the rest of the week combined. That’s how powerful the gays are in Sydney.

It’s weird that Ronnie brought me to these three clubs (there are many many more gay clubs in Sydney) because these three will soon become my regular hangout spots.

Ronnie and I go upstairs in the Beresford to go dance. Once again, the dance floor is upstairs while the downstairs part of the club is more like a pub, a place to pre-drink before dancing your ass off.

We go to the dance floor and we start dancing. I was pretty drunk at this point, and so was he.

“I wanna show you something,” Ronnie says, “But you have to close your eyes.”

“What? Why?” I say, swaying slightly to the music, trying hard to focus on Ronnie with my blurry vision.

“Just trust me!” Ronnie yells, giving a mischievous smirk.

I close my eyes. The music pounds through my head and I have a hard time standing straight. I feel him grab my hand. He moves my hand a places it right on his boner.

My hand was touching Ronnie’s penis, and I didn’t like it.