Money’s on the Dresser: Escorting, Porn and Promiscuity in Las Vegas (6 page)

Although I enjoyed going to these places alone, Patrick and I sometimes went to the bathhouses and bookstores together. A couple months after we started going I made it clear that I wanted to go on my own sometimes. He hated this, but I think he felt he had no control over it and was afraid to lose me, so he let me do what I wanted. The sex between us had gotten boring and it didn’t excite me anymore. I needed something new. Being sexually active was still fairly new to me, and I loved the release in these anonymous encounters without him.

During my four years with Patrick, I started watching porn produced by one of the most controversial companies in the industry, Treasure Island Media (TIM). One day, I came home to find a few DVDs Patrick had ordered. One of them was called
Animals
and the other one was called
What I Can’t See.
Until this, my porn taste was pretty vanilla and not too extreme, but after watching
Animals
—which has absolutely nothing to do with bestiality, but about men who are so horny they have sex like animals in heat—I was hooked on Treasure Island Media porn.

After frequenting bookstores and bathhouses, I started watching Treasure Island Media’s
Drunk On Cum
series of movies where one lucky guy would be on the floor in the middle of a group of guys—anywhere from two to twenty or more—and basically suck them all off until they came in his mouth or on his face. This whole fantasy clicked within me, and I became obsessed with oral sex. It was all very depraved, and some might view it as sick or twisted, but I didn’t care. It groomed me to be a complete cocksucking whore, and it felt great.

One night, I was determined to go to a bookstore and collect as many loads as I could either on my face or mouth. I don’t know what it is, but there is something thrilling about guys cumming in my mouth and on my face and——in a way——humiliating and degrading me. I don’t think of it as doing something I don’t want to do or I wouldn’t have repeatedly done it. I thought it was hot and I would fully let whoever wanted to cum on my face or in my mouth do so, zip up, and leave.

One evening I was on a mission to suck as much dick as possible at my favorite bookstore in Las Vegas. The place was pretty busy and I hid inside one of the booths and waited for guys to pace up and down the halls. The first guy I saw was a shorter Mexican guy with a cowboy hat and white boots. He looked like he just hopped over the border and landed in Vegas. He had a thin mustache and looked like he didn’t speak a word of English, which was perfect in my mind. It was usually better if we didn’t speak to each other.

I motioned for him to come into the booth. Right away, he grabbed his hard dick and motioned for me to suck it. I got down on my knees and began sucking his beautiful uncut seven-inch cock. He obviously loved it and came within a few minutes. He zipped up his pants, smiled, said something in Spanish, and left. The taste of his cum lingered in the back of my throat and it felt great. It tasted like the drip you get in the back of your throat after snorting a line of cocaine—kind of bitter, but I liked it. The aftertaste made my dick even harder, and I was onto the next guy. I sucked off six guys that night and probably spent a total of two hours in there. I felt like one of the depraved sex addicts I read about in my ex-gay ministry reading material, but I didn’t care. After the sixth guy blew his load in my mouth, I couldn’t hold back any longer and I shot a huge load all over the floor of the booth before collapsing on the padded bench. The last guy I was with wanted me to go to his hotel with him and spend the night, but I was not interested. I was there to suck dick, not find a boyfriend. I had a boyfriend at home and that was enough.

During the years of cruising bookstores, my relationship with Patrick became very strained. We had a codependent cycle and neither one could break it because it was comfortable for both of us. I desperately wanted to be taken care of, and Patrick loved being the caretaker. We had a nice life together with two cars, two dogs, and a brand-new house. Life was pretty much perfect, except the fact that we never had sex anymore and had become completely distant emotionally and physically. I was twenty-three when I had met Patrick, and I was now in my late twenties. I had changed as a person and didn’t want to be tied down in a relationship I wasn’t fully invested in. I think Patrick felt this, too, but he didn’t want to admit it. He was used to being the caretaker and liked that role. Without it he seemed lost, and I felt like I was continuing with the relationship simply because we had so much invested, and I didn’t know how to break away. I truly did love him but I knew love wasn’t enough to stay together if things were clearly not working.

One night we were out partying with friends of mine from Jubilee. It took a lot of convincing Patrick to go out with us because he had grown so content with just staying home, working around the house or watching television and relaxing. If we did go out, it was usually to a low-key place where we would have a few beers, play pool, and talk with friends. I was still into going out to clubs, drinking until dawn, going for breakfast, and then passing out around eight or nine in the morning. It was Las Vegas after all. This is how most of us spent our time when we went out. Patrick would put up with it and act like he was having fun, but I knew he wasn’t. We had been out to the popular gay club on the strip called Krave and then headed to a hole-in-the-wall bar called the Buffalo. I was there with my friends Monica, Brent, and Jacob. Jacob had a fresh stash of cocaine and was sharing it freely with everyone. Hard drugs weren’t something I did often, but once in a while when out dancing at clubs, I would indulge if they were offered. Patrick was against all drugs except weed. He didn’t even like knowing I had done them in my past, so the few times I took part, I had to hide it from him.

Jacob and I were going back and forth to the bathroom doing lines on the back of the toilet with a dollar bill, and also continuing to drink and chain-smoke all night. The more coke I did, the more I needed to maintain my high. I asked Jacob for the bag, and I went to the bathroom to do another line. I spread it on top of the toilet tank and cut it into a few neat lines with a credit card. I was sick of making trips to the bathroom and worried Patrick would start asking questions, so I wanted to snort enough to maintain a good high for the rest of the night. As I bent over to snort the huge line, I saw my reflection in the giant mirror in front of me. I snorted the first line and then waited a few seconds before I went for the second. As I snorted it, I suddenly saw Patrick’s reflection in the mirror walking into the bathroom. I had stupidly forgotten to lock the door. He saw me, acted surprised, and said, “Oh, sorry,” before dashing out. I stood up over the toilet and knew he had seen me. I started freaking out thinking,
Oh my God. He’s going to kill me.
I waited a few seconds, sat on the toilet and collapsed my face into my hands and whispered, “SHIT.” I didn’t know what to do. Patrick had clearly seen me snorting a line, but for some reason, he hadn’t acted like he knew what I was doing or who I was. Instead, he just had just given me a funny look and acted embarrassed for walking into the bathroom.
Maybe he didn’t recognize me?
I took a moment to calm down, snorted the last line, washed my hands, grabbed my drink, and walked out to face whatever was waiting for me outside the bathroom.

Patrick smiled at me and said, “Hey, I didn’t realize it was you in there.” He had come and left so quickly he must not have seen my face. He looked at me strangely and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah... totally,” I sniffed nervously, still unsure if I was in the clear. He looked confused, almost as if he knew something was up, but he had no clue what was going on.

“Are you having fun?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s OK. I think I’m ready to go soon.”

“OK, sure,” I responded.

He looked closer at me, and after a few seconds he asked, “Christopher, what’s under your nose?”

Shit.
I was totally busted. I quickly wiped my nose and said, “Nothing, why?”

“That’s it!” he screamed. “Get your shit. We’re going home now!” As he stormed out the front door, I peeked in the bathroom mirror at my face and saw white powder in both nostrils and above my lips. I looked like a complete junkie and a total sweaty mess. I turned a ghostly shade of white, my knees became weak, and I felt sick to my stomach.

“Fuck,” I said, then cleaned myself up and ran after Patrick.

On the drive home, he broke up with me and told me I had to get out of the house. I packed a few bags silently, still completely fucked up and coked out. I had no idea where to go, so I went back to the Buffalo to see if my friends were still there. I met up with Brent and Jacob and told them everything that happened. Jacob took us back to his house, where we did line after line of coke, and I spent the entire time sobbing. They continued to console me as we snorted lines off a dinner plate until the wee hours of the morning.

Although Patrick had threatened before to break up with me, this time I knew it was over. I needed to move on and start a new life again, ending this dysfunctional codependent relationship cycle.

Chapter Four

Money, Travel and Sex

Clients and friends often ask me why I started escorting. One word: money. Any escort that tells you they do it for another reason is probably lying. Some claim they do it because they love sex so much and need it all the time. There’s probably some truth to that, but escorts are not banging guys that look like Richard Gere in the movie
Pretty Woman
, so it’s going to take a lot more than an overwhelming need for sex or being a sex addict to be working as an escort in this industry.

The reason I began was because I needed money and I needed it quick. When Patrick and I broke up, I was left in a position where I needed my own place to live. We had bought a house together a few years earlier, but the house was in his name.

It was 2009, and Las Vegas was in the middle of the housing crisis. Decent-sized homes in good condition were going for anywhere from $100,000 to $125, 000. I knew with my credit and job history that I could buy a condo or a small house. The monthly mortgage payments would be a lot cheaper than renting a place, but I needed to come up with a few thousand dollars for a down payment. I was still dancing in Jubilee at Bally’s Hotel, making a decent salary. My credit rating was good, but I did not have money lying around for a down payment or closing costs to purchase a home. Not only that, but I knew buying a home was going to require additional money to get started with some simple renovations and to purchase appliances. I couldn’t borrow the money from anyone I knew, so the answer seemed simple... become a male escort, a “Rentboy.”

I was intrigued by the thought of what it would be like to have sex with people for money. I loved having sex so much in my personal life that some would consider me a borderline sex addict. I thought why not transform my dysfunction into cash? A part of me dreamed of a life of dinners with rich clients in nice restaurants, or flying around the world for fun getaways with billionaires. The life of an escort was glamorous, or at least the movie
Pretty Woman
made it seem that way.

I had been offered money for sex a few times on online hook-up sites and actually done it once when Patrick and I moved to Las Vegas in 2006 and we needed cash. I had already spent all my savings moving and purchasing our apartment (next to the Hard Rock Casino) and its furniture. One night, a married man in his fifties contacted me through a popular hook-up site called Manhunt and we began chatting. I was bored and drunk on apple pucker martinis, so I was humoring him, flirting to pass the time until Patrick got home from work. Our messages went from playful to sexual, and he finally asked if I would come over and have sex with him for three hundred dollars.
Three hundred bucks just to have sex with him? How can I say no?
I was drunk, thinking only about the money and not my boyfriend or my safety, and I stumbled over to his hotel, just across the street. He met me outside and walked me to his room. He was playing porn and the lights were low. The guy wasn’t especially attractive, but he wasn’t ugly either. He was an overweight middle-aged man, but he took care of himself, smelled good, and was polite. Years later, when I began escorting full-time, I realized how little things like good hygiene and manners, so simple in my mind, were often rare. We walked into the room, and I didn’t feel nervous or scared. I knew what I had come there to do, so I undressed and got hard immediately. The thrill and excitement of this whole situation was enough to make my dick stand straight up and smack against my stomach. I felt like I was doing something bad and I loved it. It wasn’t as if I was really into the guy, but I definitely got off on the fact that this man got off on me. A trait of a typical narcissist. He sucked my dick for about five minutes, I sucked his dick for a few more, and then I jerked off until we came. I got dressed, he gave me my three hundred dollars, and I was on my way home. It was the easiest money I had ever made! I put it toward bills and phone cards to call my family over the next few days.

The guilt eventually set in, however. A few months later, when I was really drunk, I broke down and told Patrick everything. He was furious and threatened to dump me that night, but we somehow worked through it and stayed together. Our dysfunctional codependent relationship lasted three more years.

A few days after Patrick and I split for good, he told me he wanted to try to make our relationship work and he didn’t want to give up. I contemplated it for a while because we had built a life for ourselves, owned a nice new home, and had two dogs together. I did love him, but in my heart I knew it was time to move on, grow up, and be on my own. I needed to figure out how to be an adult and quit asking Patrick to take care of me. I knew I couldn’t begin to do this unless I was on my own, supporting myself financially and emotionally away from him.

Now I had to embark on this journey as a single man in my late twenties without going into too much debt while still living the standard of living I was used to. The answer seemed simple: Become an escort. In the next few weeks, I put an ad on a popular male escort site called Rentboy and started taking calls. Within a month I had money for a down payment, closing costs, and some home renovations.