Money’s on the Dresser: Escorting, Porn and Promiscuity in Las Vegas (2 page)

“I want you to kick me as hard as you can in the balls whenever I tell you to do it. It’ll probably be often and throughout the day. I’m serious, man. I want you to kick the shit out of my nuts and step on ‘em. I want you to climb on top of me and jump on my dick like a trampoline.”

I was confused. Was this guy serious? And why did this all sound so familiar?

“Okay, I guess I can do that,” I said, feeling slightly sick to my stomach at the thought of all that physical pain done to someone’s dick and balls. I remembered being an eight-year-old boy on the playground running across the field toward the jungle gym to play on the monkey bars. Some kids were playing soccer and accidentally kicked the ball off the field and it went flying toward me, smacking me right in the nuts. I felt shooting pains in my stomach, became very dizzy, and saw yellow stars just like in the cartoons. One of the kids ran over to me to get his ball and I handed it back to him even though I felt like I was about to pass out. He asked me if I was okay and I was barely able to get out the word “yep.” The pain lasted a few hours and I would vividly feel it every time I saw someone on
America’s Funniest Home Videos
get smacked in the groin. Maybe this wasn’t for me, even though the money sounded amazing.

“And, on the last day of your visit, I will give you an extra fifteen hundred dollars for you to tie me down and kick me in the nuts until they are black and blue and I can’t move anymore. I mean it, Chris... I want you to put big heavy, steel-toe army boots on and just kick the shit out of my dick.”

All of a sudden, I remembered this conversation.

“What is your name again?” I asked.

“Marvin.” As soon as he repeated his name, it all came back to me. I wasn’t upset with his request, but I was pissed this guy wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone and woke me up with his stupid fake sexual fantasy.

Marvin was someone who had called me a few times when I first began escorting two years ago. I had considered his odd requests because I thought he was serious, and if someone were going to pay me a few thousand dollars to kick him in the balls, then how could I say no to that much money? Money is money. Unfortunately, after his second and third phone call, I got the feeling this guy—like so many others—was only interested in wasting my time and giving me the run-around. A lot of these men who called with very specific requests were full of shit and had no intention of actually following through with me or any other escort.

“Listen, asshole,” I said. “I think you’re fucking gross. I don’t give a shit with what you’re into, but quit wasting my time, you twisted fuck, and leave me the fuck alone before I come out to LA, find you, and seriously bash the shit out of your balls!”

Before Marvin could respond, I hung up the phone. I remembered that he’s well known to escorts, especially on the West Coast, for bothering guys with this odd-ball bashing requests and never actually hiring anyone. If that’s what you get off on, fine, but don’t wake me up on a Sunday morning just to waste my time with this shit.

I was still tired and needed to sleep off a few more vodka drinks from the night before. I had gone bar-hopping with my best friend Jonathan until five in the morning. All I remember was starting at a local gay country and western bar called Charlie’s, moving to another bar called 8.5 and ending the night at Krave, the only gay nightclub on the Las Vegas Strip. When we got to Krave, we watched Shangela, one of the contestants from
RuPaul’s Drag Race,
perform a Beyonce medley. Afterward, we took pictures with her, did shots, and told her how beautiful she was, something all drag queens love to hear from their adoring fans.

I tried to forget about the phone call and focus on breathing deeply until my body was completely relaxed. I was soon able to fall back asleep, only to be awakened again by my phone, this time from a blocked number. I rarely answered calls from blocked numbers because guys who called from blocked numbers were, like Marvin, generally not serious about hiring. Instead, they would waste my time with tons of questions about what I do and don’t get into, and they would want to tell me their life story and play out some kind of elaborate fantasy they had with escorts.

It seemed like eighty-five to ninety-five percent of these men never actually hired escorts; instead, they were probably just jacking off on the other end of the phone, listening to an escort’s voice. I pretty much stopped answering blocked calls soon after I began escorting, but that morning I was so sleepy I stupidly picked up.

“Hello?” I said, trying to sound awake and not hung over.

“Hi, is this Christopher Daniels?” asked the man on the other line.

“Yes, it is. Who is this?” I asked.

“My name is Tom, and I was wondering if you were free this afternoon.” The man sounded normal, direct, and to the point. I was hoping there would be no beating around the bush and he wouldn’t ask me a thousand questions. It made my life a lot easier when the clients knew what they wanted and were ready to set something up. It grated on my last nerve when they would ask me a million questions about height, weight, age, dick size, costs, what I will and will not do, fetishes, positions, if I was a top or a bottom, and so on. All of that information was clearly stated in my ads and there was no need to spend ten minutes asking questions.

“Yes, I am. What hotel are you staying at?” I asked.

“Mandalay Bay. I was wondering if you could come over to my hotel, fuck my son, and then fuck me.”

I sat up, speechless. I paused and thought to myself,
Is this guy for real?
Immediately, I became suspicious yet slightly aroused. The idea of a hot father-and-son scenario turned me on, as long as the son was of legal age, but I had no clue if that was the kind of situation this man was talking about.

“How old is your son?” I asked.

“He’s twelve and he’s a virgin.” Tom’s voice didn’t even flinch when he said this son. Suddenly, I began to feel ill and disgusted, just hearing the words come out of this man’s mouth. Even though I knew childhood sexual abuse is prevalent in both the gay and straight communities, it’s not something I had experienced.

“Are you seriously asking me to have sex with your twelve-year-old son, and then have sex with you?” I asked incredulously.

There were so many things wrong with this request. I really began to worry. Was I talking to a cop working for some kind of sting operation, like
To Catch a Predator
? Was this a set-up? Were Chris Hanson and the
Dateline NBC
crew on the other line?

Unsure if he was full of shit or just fucking with me, I said, “Uhhhh... sir, I can’t do that. That’s, uh... I’m not sure if you understand, but you could get into a lot of trouble for something like that. So could I.”

“Well, the thing is he wanted me to fuck him, and I was going to, but then we thought it would be fun to hire an escort, and he thinks you’re really hot. All you have to do is fuck him as I watch you both, then you can fuck me and he’ll watch us.”

Even if the twelve-year-old wanted me to do this, it would still be sex with a minor. I felt guilty even hearing this man’s request. This had to be a set-up; there was no way it was real. I thought I had stopped being shocked by requests since that one time a guy asked me to take a shit in his mouth—which apparently some guys really get into—but I guess this was a new one.

I wanted to scream at Tom and tell him how disgusting he was and how what he was doing was wrong on so many levels, but I couldn’t because I was literally speechless. Finally I uttered, “I’m sorry, that’s not something I can do.”

“Okay, not a problem. We’ll find someone else. Thanks.” And Tom hung up.

One guy who wants me to kick the shit out of his balls and a father who wants me to fuck him and his twelve-year-old virgin son. All this is happening to me before noon on a Sunday. Welcome to my life.

Chapter Two

FAGGOT

Although I didn’t come from a background most people would associate with someone in the sex industry, feelings I had are familiar to many who made similar choices. Even as a young kid, it was clear there was something missing in my life. My need for approval and love goes back as far as I can remember. I never felt like I fit in, whether at school, during recess or gym class, church, playing with the neighborhood boys, or at home. I always felt like I was standing on the outside of everything that was happening around me and never felt like I was a part of a community or group of people. The question of love was never an issue in my home, but I knew from a young age I wasn’t anything like my older siblings or extended family. My family always loved me and was very proud of me and my accomplishments, but I always felt very distant from them and never felt like they fully understood what was going on in my mind.

Unfortunately, it always felt like something was keeping me from truly feeling close or connected to them. This caused me to become very withdrawn and shy in social settings, as well as apprehensive about putting myself out there or getting to know the people around me.

I didn’t come from a broken home, I wasn’t sexually abused, and I didn’t even lose my virginity until I was nineteen. Aside from smoking pot, I didn’t really start experimenting with drugs until my mid-twenties and, even then, only recreationally.

When I started escorting in 2009, I looked online for books, documentaries, interviews, movies, and TV shows about the world of male escorting. The only materials I could find were a few outdated books, magazine interviews, and YouTube video clips. They were anywhere from ten to twenty-plus years old. Most of the sources discussed male “hustlers” putting ads in the back pages of XXX magazines or standing on the street corner waiting to be picked up by middle-aged men throughout the night. Many of the accounts talked about these guys struggling with drug addiction, coming from broken homes, and living on the streets or in shitty hotel rooms. Most of them only escorted to support a drug habit. It all seemed very dark, sad, and depressing. I could relate to none of it, and I struggled to find current information on what it’s like to work in the sex industry, because although it was all very new to me, I knew it couldn’t be as bleak and dark as how people made it out to be.

I wasn’t exposed to sex or pornography at a young age; I didn’t even know how two men had sex until I was fourteen and a straight male friend explained it to me. Looking back, I am amused at how naive I was, especially considering how kids are so easily exposed to things like pornography and sex at younger and younger ages. It seems like most fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds today have more knowledge and experience than I did in my late teens and early twenties. (This isn’t making me sound like a very interesting escort, is it?)

I don’t speak for everyone in the sex industry, but in my experience, I have come to learn that not all escorts and porn stars are meth-head, drug-abusing sex addicts who will give a ten-dollar blow-job to buy their next hit.

During my first week as a male escort, I got a phone call from a Las Vegas native. His name was Kyle, a man in his early sixties. He invited me to spend the evening with him and two other escorts visiting from Los Angeles. Their names were Christopher and Kristofer. I wasn’t sure how he was going to keep the three of us all straight, but I agreed to meet them the following evening. When I got to the hotel room, I expected to walk into the room to see some trashy, shirtless, drunk young men smoking cigarettes and high on something. Instead, I walked into a room where I met Kyle and two good-looking men in their early thirties. Christopher Number One was a massage therapist from Los Angeles, and Kristofer Number Two was an actor from North Hollywood. Both were clean-cut, good-looking men who looked like the boy-next-door type. Neither did porn, had ever touched drugs, or even drank much. In fact, Kristofer admitted his biggest weakness was penny slot machines and Mountain Dew soda. These two guys were not what I had expected of the majority of male escorts.

We spend two or three hours that night talking and getting to know each other before finally moving to the bedroom to do what we ultimately came to do. Kyle was a nice man and really got off on spending quality time going to dinner, shows, hanging out and talking with male escorts. He enjoyed getting to know us, giving us advice and listening to the things we were going through in our personal lives. Sexual contact had very little to do with our meetings, but eventually it happened. Christopher, Kristofer, Kyle, and I moved to the bedroom to get things started. Kyle took out some Vaseline to jerk one of us off and make out while the other two would fuck like animals. All three of us appeared to be such nice, clean-cut, well-mannered men, but once the clothes came off and the lights went down, Christopher and Kristofer became aggressive dominating tag-team tops and took turns fucking me. I remember thinking halfway through the orgy, “How could this be considered work?” I was having a blast, and Kyle was getting off on just sitting back and watching us go at it.

I read many accounts of guys and girls who went into the sex industry, and most came from broken homes or struggled with addictions and abuse. I, on the other hand, spent my childhood going to church up to three times a week, twice on Sunday and Bible study on Wednesday. I took part in acting, dance, and music lessons my whole life. I listened to children’s Bible story tapes produced by
Focus on the Family
every night, and I would spend hours singing along to Broadway as a kid.
Annie
was my favorite musical, and I could rock out the opening song “Maybe” better than any girl under the age of ten auditioning for the show.

Everything I did as a child was pretty much considered “gay” by my peers, classmates, teachers, and family members. I was the typical gay kid in school. I spent my childhood in school musicals and ballet class and begged my mom to put me in cooking and sewing lessons. It still makes me laugh when I told my mom I was gay at age twenty-two and she had a hard time dealing with it. She’s the one who went along with putting me in cooking, sewing, knitting, dance, and violin lessons, after weeks or even months of me pleading and begging her. Other than becoming gay, how else would I have turned out? I was the youngest of five kids and my three older brothers were always the more athletic ones. I remember spending a lot of time in hockey arenas, watching my brothers play on various church and local hockey teams. I pretty much detested all sports but enjoyed going to their games for the eye candy. Two of my brothers went to the same Bible College. I’d love to go spend the day with them because their friends would always be hanging around and sometimes shirtless and I thought they were so fucking hot. I fantasized about their friends all the time and I’d get instant erections watching them walk around topless and freeballing in gym shorts.