Confessions of an Escort: Clients I’d Rather Forget

In this line of work, you quickly learn that no two clients are the same. Sometimes the surprise is a good one: someone kind, generous, considerate, who leaves without a trace of tension. But most of the time the surprises are bad, and some are so bad that it takes years to get them out of your head. I spent almost three years working as a male escort, and what I’m about to tell you are the experiences I never tell anyone, the ones I’d rather forget and yet never quite manage to.

I got started almost by accident. An acquaintance told me about platforms where you could advertise yourself as an escort and make in one night what other people took a week to earn. I was twenty-three, had rent to pay, and few options on the table. I told myself I’d try it once, just to see. Once became three years.

I’m not going to romanticize anything. The job has moments that work: clients who are almost pleasant, financial independence I couldn’t find anywhere else, the feeling of control over your own time. But it also has moments that churn you up inside, that make you wonder what you’re doing and where you drew the line. This is the story of those moments.

***

The first one I’m going to mention was named Rodrigo, though in my head I called him the Tuesday fat guy, because that was exactly what he was. He came every two weeks, always in the afternoon, always on time. He was a middle-aged man with the body of someone who had gone decades without moving very much. It’s not that weight is a problem in itself, but Rodrigo sweated in a way I had never seen in anyone before and have never seen since. No sooner had we started than his body seemed to kick some emergency mechanism into gear: sweat poured out of him as if he’d been running for an hour, even though all he’d done was take off his shirt.

I required all my clients to shower before we began. Rodrigo did, without complaining, good-naturedly. But it made no difference. Ten minutes into contact his body was soaked and there was a smell that clung to the sheets, to the air, to my hands. When he asked me to suck him off, I had to maneuver to reach him, because the mass of his body made any position awkward. I’d end up kneeling between his spread thighs, using both hands to move aside the belly hanging over his groin so I could get to his cock. It was short and thick, hidden among folds of damp flesh, and every time I pulled it out I got a blast of stale sweat mixed with the shower soap that had done nothing at all.

—Suck it all the way, asshole, all the way down —he panted, digging one hand into the back of my neck—. Swallow it, that’s what I pay you for.

I took him in my mouth and he started thrusting his hips upward, with those short little jerks only someone that heavy can manage. I licked the tip, ran my tongue underneath, swallowed his balls one by one while he let out a litany of muffled moans and called me bitch, filthy, cocksucker. He loved the language and I gave it to him: I moaned with my mouth full, let the thread of saliva run down my chin, smeared it on his cock and took him in again until my throat closed up. Sweat ran down his belly and dripped onto my forehead, my cheek, my lips. I learned to develop a mental distance, a kind of inner place I’d retreat to while I kept sucking him and he fucked my mouth at his own pace.

When he got tired of my mouth, he’d ask me to get on all fours at the edge of the bed. There I had to set myself with my hips high, because if he tried to mount me from above he’d be out of breath in thirty seconds. He’d come up standing, his thick cock already drooling pre-cum, and slam it into me. There was no preparation, no patience: he’d spit twice on the hole, smear the tip, and shove himself all the way in until I could feel him throbbing in my guts. He’d grip my ass cheeks with both hands, pry them apart until it hurt, and start pumping, huffing, sweating onto my back until my spine was soaked.

—Tighten that ass, you son of a bitch, tighten it for me —he’d growl—. I want to feel me driving it in, I’m not just anyone.

I’d clench and he’d let out a fat, satisfied laugh. He’d fuck me for twenty or thirty minutes straight, never changing position, varying only by speeding up or slowing down when he felt he was about to come and wanted to hold off. He loved delaying it. He’d pull out, smack my ass twice, shove three thick fingers in to keep me open, and go back in. When he finally gave up, he’d drive his cock in to the hilt, press himself against my back with all his weight, and come inside in long bursts, grunting an “ah, shit, shit, shit” that lasted as long as his orgasm did. I could feel the hot semen filling me from within while he kept making slow thrusts, squeezing out the last drop.

What I remember most about him isn’t the smell or the physical effort. What I remember most is the look of satisfaction on his face afterward, that expression of someone who had just solved something fundamental. He paid on time, dressed without rushing, and left without saying much. For months it was exactly like that, with no variation. In a way, Rodrigo was one of the most predictable clients I had, and that had its value.

***

Different was the experience of what was presented to me as a private show. That’s how they described it when they contacted me: a show. They explained there would be other men, and that my job would be to participate actively while some people watched from the outside. They pitched it as something very well paid, and at that moment that weighed most heavily on the scale.

There were five of us in total: me and four guys I’d never seen before. There were also three or four people sitting around just watching, in silence, like in a theater. They made me strip first, in front of everyone, while they stayed dressed. They put me on my knees in the middle of the room and the four of them came toward me with their cocks already out. I started with the one in front of me: a tall guy with a long, curved dick, who put it against my lips and waited for me to open my mouth. I sucked him off slowly at first, tasting him, letting him feel welcome, and he immediately grabbed my head with both hands and started fucking my mouth with no consideration at all.

—Like that, swallow the whole thing —one of the spectators said from the shadows—. Not a centimeter left over.

The other three had positioned themselves around me and took turns moving in. One would shove his cock into my mouth until I was in tears, pull out, and the one next to him would ram his in before I could breathe. I took them all in turn, sucked all four of them, licked their balls, sucked their glans, and showed them my spit-soaked tongue between cock and cock. One of them, a short dark guy with a very thick dick, got bored waiting his turn and pressed himself against my face while I had another one in my mouth: he came there, without warning, the first ropes of semen landing on my cheekbones, my eyelids, my lips still sealed around the other guy’s cock. The spectators clapped softly, like at a performance.

Then they made me stand up and get on all fours on a low table they had set in the center. The first one to mount me was the tall guy with the curved cock. He spit on my ass, put on a condom —the others hadn’t been asked to, but he did it on his own— and shoved himself in with one thrust. He fucked me while looking at the people watching, as if he were dedicating the show to them and not to me. Five minutes later he pulled out, took off the condom, came on my back, and signaled the next one. Another guy came and penetrated me without a condom, this one gripping my hips with hard hands and fucking me with a dry, rhythmic violence, counting the thrusts under his breath as if he were doing an exercise. When he came inside, he stayed pressed against me and laughed.

The third wanted something different. He asked me to lie on my back, with my legs against my chest, and looked me in the eye while he fucked me. He was the slowest, the deepest, the one who wrung the most genuine moans out of me even though I didn’t want to give them to him. He pinched my nipples, spit in my mouth, made me lick his thumb while he thrust into me. When he was about to come he pulled out his cock and put it against my tongue, filling my mouth until it overflowed from the corners.

And then came the moment when two of them mounted me at once. I had never had two cocks inside me and I told them so. One of them, the short dark guy who had already come on my face, lay on his back on the table and asked me to sit on top of him. I sank onto his thick cock slowly, enduring the burn, and when I was all the way down the other one came up from behind. He grabbed my shoulders to tip me forward, smeared himself with the saliva and semen already inside me, and started pushing alongside the other cock. I opened as best I could, clenching my teeth, feeling the stretch to a point I had never felt before. When he was all the way in, the two of them stayed still for a few seconds, and then started moving alternately: one went up as the other came down, and I was in the middle, skewered, moaning without being able to tell whether it was pleasure or simple survival. They came one after the other, almost back to back, and left me dripping semen out of my ass and down to my knees.

What followed lasted nearly two hours. I sucked them all again to finish, they penetrated me again one by one as they got hard once more, and on two more occasions the two of them came at once again. I had experience, I knew what I was doing, but the accumulation of bodies and demands over two hours takes a toll that isn’t purely physical. There’s something else that gets used up besides the body.

In the end, when everyone was finished and I thought the worst was over, the atmosphere took a turn that had not been part of any agreement. The ones who had been watching stood up and came over. Not to participate in any conventional sense. To piss on me, one after another, with the calm of people doing something perfectly normal.

I got paid what had been agreed. I didn’t say anything at the time. That night I showered four times in a row and took a long time to fall asleep. The smell took longer to leave my memory than my skin.

***

There was a client whose only interest was urine, but in a more restrained way, if that can be said. His name was Gustavo, he was close to sixty, and paradoxically he was one of the most polite men who ever came through my door. Gray suit, impeccable manners, arriving with almost formal punctuality, as if he were going to a business meeting. He told me on the first date that he’d had this desire since he was twenty and had never found a way to get it out of his head.

What he wanted was simple in its mechanics: for me to piss on him while he was lying on the floor. Then he would do the same to me. That was all. He didn’t ask for sex in any other sense, didn’t add extra requests, didn’t try to change the conditions at the last minute. Just that, and then he’d shower calmly, put his suit back on, and leave thanking me.

Of all the strange clients I had, Gustavo was paradoxically the easiest to deal with. He never disrespected me, never tried to add something we hadn’t agreed on, always paid exactly what was promised. He had a fetish that most people would find disturbing and yet handled it with more dignity than many others who came in with requests that sounded far more conventional.

***

Not everyone who came with extreme requests was so civilized. There was a man I’m going to call Mauricio who was exactly the kind of person you’d never expect this from. He was a businessman, or at least that’s how he presented himself. He talked about his conquests with women in the first five minutes of conversation, had that way of introducing himself that screams to everyone that he’s in charge. And yet what he wanted, once the door was closed, was to get on all fours and receive. He liked roughness, open-handed hits, the leash. He asked me not to show him any consideration and I did what we had agreed.

The first session with him was long and filthy. He was waiting on his knees beside the bed, in his underwear, head bowed. He had me in character immediately: he wanted me to talk to him like a pig, to call him bitch, whore, slut, anything I could think of. I grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and spit in his mouth.

—Open, slut —I told him—. Let me see that tongue.

And he stuck it out, obediently, waiting for the next spit. I gave him two hard slaps that left his cheek red and yanked his underwear down in one pull. He was already hard, pointing upward, with a string of pre-cum hanging from him. I made him get on all fours on the rug and started spanking his ass with my open hand, first hard, then harder, until the marks of my fingers showed on him. I counted out loud: one, two, three, and he had to thank me for them.

—Thank you, sir, one more, please, sir —he repeated in a trembling voice, already horny, pushing his ass back to ask for more.

I switched from my hand to the leash. I lashed his ass with it and he gave out a low howl, biting his lip. I left his skin red, crisscrossed with straight marks, and when he was about to beg me to stop, I shoved three fingers into his ass at once. He opened like a ripe fruit, clenching around my fingers, moaning an “aaah, fuck, more” with his face pressed into the rug. I finger-fucked his ass for a long while, twisting my fingers, pulling them out and ramming them back in, until he started fucking my hand himself by moving his hips back and forth.

When he was properly open, I put on a condom and fucked him in one thrust. I drove it in to the balls, without care, and he let out that guttural moan that can’t be faked. I rode him hard, grabbing his hair and his hips at the same time, pulling his head back while I told him in his ear everything he wanted to hear: businessman bitch, important sir who closes the door and gets on all fours, slut, whore, my whore. I grabbed him by the neck from behind, not squeezing, just controlling him, and he let himself be moved like a doll. He came twice, once touching his cock while I was inside him, once without touching it, just from getting fucked so hard. When I finished, I pulled out and came into the condom, and he asked me to empty the semen into his mouth. He swallowed it all, thanking me, like a dog being rewarded with a piece of meat.

All of that was within what I accepted. The problem came in the second session, toward the end. He had a property out in the suburbs, he told me, with horses. And he wanted to bring one of those animals into what we were doing.

I thought he meant it as a fantasy, something he was verbalizing without expecting it to happen. But no. He said it with the same calm someone uses to ask for a channel change. He meant it.

I got up, got dressed, and left without finishing the session. I never answered his messages again.

There are limits that have to do with taste and others that have to do with safety and physical integrity. What Mauricio was proposing crossed all of them at once. No amount of money changes that.

***

There were two more requests that made me understand how far the human mind can go when freed from any restraint.

The first was from a guy who wanted something I thought only existed as a rumor, as a legend from the darkest circles of this line of work. I’m not going to describe it in detail. It’s enough to say it involved his own feces and that he wanted to receive it. He brought it up with complete normality, in the same tone someone would use to ask for dessert. I said no. He shrugged and didn’t insist.

The second was different in its disturbance, more intimate in a way. This other one wanted to make a small cut on my forearm and lick it. Blood. He liked blood. He explained it to me in more detail than I wanted to hear, with a calm that was more unsettling than any agitation could have been.

No.

There comes a moment in this job when you learn to say no without apologizing, without long explanations, without feeling obliged to justify yourself to anyone. That moment came for me relatively early, and it was one of the few things that kept me intact over those three years.

***

One of the strangest situations I experienced had nothing extreme about it physically. It was a woman, something unusual in my usual clientele. She contacted me one afternoon and got straight to the point: she wanted a meeting, told me the price she was willing to pay, and we arranged it.

When I arrived at the hotel room, she opened the door in a robe, wet hair, and motioned me in without much ceremony. She let the robe fall to the floor and stood naked with her back against the window, looking at me as if she were testing me. She had large breasts, dark, hard nipples, and a shaved cunt already shining with how wet she was. She asked me to get undressed slowly, while looking at her. I stripped while she bit her lip, ran a hand between her legs, and parted her pussy lips with two fingers so I could see how pink everything was inside.

I knelt in front of her and buried my face there. I started by licking her thighs, working my way up slowly until I reached her cunt. I ran my tongue all the way along her slit, from bottom to top, and stopped at her clit to suck it slowly, my lips tight around it. She let out the first real moan and dug her fingers into my hair. I slid my tongue in as deep as I could, moved it inside her, pulled it out, and went back to her clit. I slipped two fingers into her while I kept sucking her, curling them upward to find that spot that brought out short, sharp breaths. I covered the inside of her thighs with saliva and her own juices, and she came like that, pressing my head against her cunt, pushing her pelvis into my mouth.

Before she had even recovered, she pulled me up and pushed me toward the bed. She climbed on top, grabbed my cock with one hand, and took it all in one motion. She stayed still up there, eyes closed, feeling me inside her, and then started riding me with a slow, steady rhythm. She leaned forward so I could suck her tits, and I did, taking each one in turn, biting her nipples while she moved faster and faster. We changed positions several times: I put her on all fours and fucked her from behind, grabbing her hair, watching everything shake with every thrust; then I put her on her back with her legs against her chest and drove in so deep that I was hitting something inside her with every stroke.

What she didn’t tell me until we were already in the middle of it was that she wanted to photograph everything. Not for her private use, or at least not only for that. While we were together she pulled out her phone several times, taking pictures with a coldness that didn’t match what we were doing, like someone documenting something beyond what they were living. She took images of my cock entering her cunt, of my face buried between her legs, of her sucking me off while looking at the camera, of my semen on her tits when I finished.

When we were done, I asked her directly what she was going to do with those images. She told me without beating around the bush: she was going to send them. To whom, she didn’t specify, but the context was obvious. There was someone who was going to receive them and was not going to be happy to receive them.

I wasn’t the target. It was someone else. I had been the instrument of a revenge I didn’t fully understand and hadn’t consented to take part in that way. There was nothing illegal about what I had done, but the feeling of having been used for something that went beyond the agreed service left a taste in my mouth that took me a long time to shake.

***

The last one I’m going to tell you about was the one who made me leave the job.

His name was Ernesto. He was younger than most of my clients, maybe in his early forties, and he came in with an energy that at first I read as enthusiasm. I found out during the session, when there was no turning back, that he took medication to maintain an erection much longer than usual. He hadn’t told me beforehand. If I had known, I would have set different conditions.

He started in a normal way, or so it seemed. We stripped, I knelt down and sucked him off for a while. He had a long cock, thick at the base, and very hard. I sucked him well, looking up at him from below, licking his balls, letting him grab the back of my neck so he could fuck my mouth at his own pace. Then he had me lie face down and slowly slid into me, patiently, playing at going in and out until I was fully opened. In that first stretch I thought it was going to be a long session but a manageable one.

The first twenty minutes weren’t bad. The problem was that at forty he was still just as hard, and at an hour too, and by an hour and a half there was no way to get him to soften. I asked him to change things up, to rest a bit, to go slower. He nodded, changed positions, but never lowered the pace. He put me on all fours and fucked me long and deep, gripping my shoulders like a lever. He laid me on my back and fucked me with my legs hooked over his shoulders, his face close to mine, breathing down on me. He sat me astride him and made me ride him until my legs were shaking so badly I couldn’t keep up the rhythm, and then he grabbed my hips and moved me up and down himself, using me like I weighed ten pounds.

Ernesto had a stamina that didn’t register my signals that I needed to stop or change the rhythm. He was big, he did it hard, and there was something in the way he was that left no room for me to set the tempo. It wasn’t violence in the strict sense: at no point was there a threat, at no point did he explicitly refuse anything. But there was a dull insistence that ignored what I was expressing with my body. When he finally came, after more than two hours, he drove himself all the way in and stayed there, pressed against me, emptying himself for what seemed like an endless time. When he pulled out, I could feel my ass open, swollen, with a dull burning that didn’t resemble what I’d felt before.

The next day I could barely walk. The day after that I went to the doctor. The diagnosis was an internal tear, not serious in the sense that it put my life at risk, but painful and slow to heal completely. I spent more than ten days with a constant pain that followed me through every movement, every position, even lying down.

While I was at home recovering, with plenty of time to think, I went over everything that had accumulated over those years. Rodrigo and his sweat. The room that smelled of urine after the show. Mauricio and his impossible proposals. The woman taking photographs to hurt someone who wasn’t me. Ernesto and the whole week I spent unable to sit properly.

I decided it was enough. Not dramatically, not with some grand declaration. I simply closed the profiles, stopped answering messages, and never opened that chapter again.

***

What I took away from those three years is something that seems simple but that many people don’t understand: when you hire someone to provide a service, that person is still a person. They have physical limits, they have dignity, they have the right to say no and have that no respected. Money buys the agreed-upon service. It does not buy the human being providing it.

Some people understand that. Gustavo, with all his strange fetish, understood it perfectly. There were others too, clients who came with clarity about what they wanted and respect for what I offered. But too many don’t understand it, or understand it and choose to ignore it, and that’s what makes this work exhausting in ways that go far beyond physical tiredness.

If you ever hire someone, treat them as what they are: a person doing a job. Nothing more and nothing less than that.