The Worst Nights I Lived Through as a Male Escort

When I was twenty-two, I made a deal with myself: two years selling my body, not one day more, and with that I’d pay for college and move out of the city. I ended up putting up with it for three and a half years. People who’ve never done it think sex work is what you see in porn, but the reality is something else. Reality smells different, weighs differently, and leaves marks you can’t see on the skin.

What I’m going to tell you here I’ve never told anyone. Not my friends, not the psychologist they sent me to when I left the trade. But somebody needs to write down what happens on the other side of the hotel room door, because a lot of people pay for a body and think they’re also buying the right not to treat you like a person.

I’m not going to talk about the good clients. There were some: married men who needed a night of comfort, widowers who wanted conversation more than sex, young guys too scared to come out of the closet. They paid and came back and made life bearable. But they’re not the ones that stay in my head when I close my eyes.

The ones that stay are the others.

***

The first one I remember was named Ricardo. That’s what his ID said, at least. He was a guy weighing around one hundred and thirty kilos, with a face always red like he’d just climbed a hill, and a body odor that never went away, not even freshly showered. I made every client wash up before we started — my only unbreakable rule — and he obeyed, but the moment his heart rate went up, sweat burst out of him like there was a faucet open under his skin.

There’s a detail that’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it: the size of his body meant his cock was almost hidden among the folds of his belly. To suck him off I had to push flesh aside with both hands, bury my head in a wet pit of fat and hair, and hunt for it blindly with my tongue until I brought it up. It was a short, thick cock, dark, with a purple glans, and it was always sticky no matter how many times he’d showered. My throat would close up. More than once I had to pull back gagging, fake it by coughing, swallow, and go back down, sucking his balls first to gather my courage, then taking the whole thing in until it hit the back of my throat while he squeezed my neck with a sweaty hand.

—Like that, little one, like that, don’t stop, suck me dry —he’d pant, and his belly would tremble like jelly above my forehead.

Fucking him was impossible in any conventional position. I had to get on top of him and balance on his stomach, finding the angle with my hand, holding his cock at the base to guide it in because he couldn’t even see it himself. I’d shove it into myself, slowly, feeling the glans split my ass open with a blunt tug, and then I’d start riding that short dick up and down like I was mounting a sick horse. I couldn’t put too much weight on him because he complained I was crushing his legs, so I had to support myself with my thighs, knees sunk into the mattress, calves tense until they burned.

—Tell me dirty things —he’d ask me—. Tell me I’m your stud, that you love my cock, say it in my ear.

And I’d tell him, with my mouth pressed against that fat ear, while he shoved two fingers into my ass along with his cock so he could feel himself going in. I’d tell him he was the best, that he filled me up, that no cock had ever done to me what his did, and he’d groan and pinch my nipples with his stubby fingers until they turned purple. Sometimes he’d come in ten minutes, with two fat spasms that shook his whole gut, and he’d empty his load into my ass in a hot stream that would then run down my thigh when I got off him. Sometimes it took an hour. An hour of riding a sweaty mound while he asked me to spit in his mouth, bite his nipples, pull his hair. When he finally finished — with a long grunt, gripping my hips to drive himself all the way in — I’d stay still for a few seconds on top of him, feeling his cock shrink inside me and feeling his cum leaking from my ass pressed against his groin. Then he’d pull out carefully, put me in the shower in his room, and scrub my skin until it went red, until the soap got into my torn asshole and made me jerk with pain.

Ricardo paid well and he paid on time. Difficult clients almost always do. They know money is the only reason you come back.

***

The second story is different. It was a party in a chalet on the outskirts of town, with a heated pool and sculptures in the garden. They hired me as the star of a show. There were twelve guests, all men over forty, in suits, whiskey in hand as if they were in a business meeting.

Four of them were the “performers.” The other eight were the audience.

It started with a group blow job. They had me kneel on a cushion in the center of the living room, naked, hands crossed behind my back like the host had instructed. They came one by one: they’d walk up, unzip their fly, take out cocks already half-hard, and put them to my lips. I’d open my mouth and swallow them whole, lick around the glans with my tongue, bob up and down sucking hard to make them finish faster, and they’d fuck my mouth without an ounce of care, grabbing my hair, shoving my head against their pelvis until the glans hit the back of my throat and made me cough. When they were close, they’d pull away, tuck their cock back in wet with my saliva, and the next one would come. I’d done that before; it didn’t shock me. What threw me off was the silence of the audience. They didn’t talk, didn’t comment, didn’t laugh. They watched like people observing an experiment in a lab, with sweating whiskey glasses in their hands and hard cocks straining against their suit pants.

Then came the penetrations. One of the four laid me face down on the leather sofa, spread my ass cheeks with both hands, spat on my hole, and drove his cock in with one thrust all the way to the base. I screamed into the cushion. He started fucking me with long, dry drives, no rhythm, each slap making his balls hit mine. When he came he did it inside, and pulled out slowly so the spectators could see the load dripping down my perineum. The other three followed, one after another, not letting me close up. The second flipped me onto my back, lifted my legs over his shoulders, looked me in the eyes while he wrecked me with his cock, and spat in my face before emptying himself inside. The third sat me astride him in an armchair and made me ride him while he squeezed my throat with one hand and used the other to smack my ass.

The fourth wanted double. He called over one of the men who had already come, told him to lie on his back on the rug, made me get on top of him with that cock hard again, and when I had it inside me he got behind me, shoved my chest against the chest of the man underneath, and drove his cock in beside the other one, into the same hole. A howl tore out of me. I felt split in two, two glans pushing against each other for space, my ass flesh stretched to a limit I didn’t know it had. They started moving out of sync, one entering as the other withdrew, fucking me between them like I was a sleeve being passed from hand to hand. I tried to dissociate, think about something else, mentally count the money I’d make that night, but there are moments when your body forces you to be present, and this was one of them.

Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

The eight spectators had moved closer in a semicircle, silent, cocks out. When the two men fucking me finished, with a double gasp, and pulled out, unloading a double gush of hot cum that ran down my thighs, the eight of them stood up at the same time, as if someone had given a silent order, and approached the sofa where they’d left me sprawled, legs open and ass open and dripping. I understood what was coming before anyone said anything. They unzipped their pants all the way, took out their hard cocks, aimed, and covered me in piss. Twelve men pissing on a twenty-three-year-old boy while they smiled. The first stream hit my face, hot, acidic, sliding into my open mouth and up my nose. The rest fell over my whole body: on my chest, on my cock gone flaccid from the friction, on my wrecked ass where it mixed with the cum from the four men before and ran in a yellow river over the leather of the sofa. I kept my eyes closed until the last one was done.

The host paid me triple the agreed amount and offered me an extra tip if I left without showering. I took the tip. In the car, on the way home, I rolled down the windows because the smell from the seat made me nauseous, and at home I stayed under hot water for half an hour until there wasn’t a trace left.

***

There’s one client I still remember with a certain fondness, which says a lot about the landscape. His name was Don Emilio, he was sixty-two, a retired banker, and he had a very specific fetish: he wanted to suck me off first and then wanted me to piss on him.

Don Emilio was polite to an absurd degree. He addressed me formally, held the elevator door, made me a coffee before we started. In bed he wasn’t aggressive or grotesque. His whole thing had something almost ceremonial about it. He’d sit me on the edge of the bed, kneel between my legs with clean hands and trimmed nails, and pull my cock out with a strange delicacy, as if unwrapping a gift. He’d lick it first at the base, moving his flat tongue up to the glans, and then take the whole thing into his mouth with his eyes closed. He’d suck without hurry, with a sweet, precise technique that made it seem like he’d been doing it half his life. He’d stroke my balls with his fingertips, press his thumb into my perineum, and wouldn’t stop until I was close. Then he’d pull my cock out of his mouth, rest it against his cheek, and look up at me with an apologetic expression, waiting for the signal.

He’d lie on his back on the bathroom floor, on top of a white towel he always placed in the same spot. I’d stand with my legs apart over his face, aim my cock, and start urinating over his chest and face. He’d close his eyes like someone praying, open his mouth a little so the stream could get in, and stroke his own cock with one hand while the other spread the hot liquid over his skin. He almost always came a few seconds later, with a silent tremble, while I kept pissing on him until my bladder was empty.

He paid for every session with fresh bills, tucked into a white envelope with my name written in old-fashioned script. He never made me feel dirty, and in this line of work that sentence is worth more than money.

***

Another one I won’t forget was named Santiago. He had a ranch forty kilometers from the city, with horses, a huge barn, and a house with a stone fireplace. He was one of those men who spend the first hour telling you about every woman they’ve been with, showing you photos on their phone, boasting like they need to convince themselves of something.

With me he wanted exactly the opposite. He wanted to get on all fours on a rug in front of the fireplace, naked, ass up and face pressed to the floor, and have me treat him like an animal. I’d gag him with a leather bit he passed me himself, tie his wrists behind his back with rope, and start with spankings. First with my hand, hard slaps on his ass until it went red and finger-marked. Then with the belt, folded in two, sharp cracks that left purple welts. Then with a leather riding crop he kept in the hallway closet, the one he asked me to use only when he was already “ready.” I’d spread his ass cheeks with my free hand and whip his hole directly, and he’d moan through the gag and a thread of saliva would escape him.

When he was close to coming just from the blows, I’d take my cock out, spit on it in my hand, rub it over his reddened asshole, and drive it in all at once. I’d fuck him hard, holding onto the ropes at his wrists like reins, pulling him against my pelvis, spanking him while I pounded him. He’d come on his own inside, with his cock dripping without anyone touching it, when I filled his ass with cum. That kind of session didn’t bother me. I had regular clients with similar tastes and I’d already learned how to handle intensity, how to read when they wanted more and when they were at the limit.

What happened the third time was different. After a particularly rough session, Santiago sat on the floor, still naked, sweaty, cum running down the inside of his thigh, and looked at me with a strange smile.

—I’d pay you ten thousand if you’d let me do something with you in the barn —he said.

—What kind of something?

—With one of the horses. Just watch. You on top, him behind.

I thought he was joking. I smiled at him, waiting for the punch line. There wasn’t one. He repeated the offer as if he were offering me a trip to the beach.

—No —I told him—. Not a chance. That’s not sex, that’s ending up in a hospital or the morgue.

He insisted. Went up to fifteen thousand. I never went back to his ranch, though for months he kept texting me long messages with ever-higher offers. I eventually blocked his number.

***

There are requests I’d heard as jokes or urban legends and found out were real. The client who wanted someone to shit on him, and then eat it. The one who wanted me to make a small cut on his forearm and suck his blood. I told both of them no, charged both the minimum hour for wasting my time, and both left without arguing. I suspect they’re used to rejection, and paying is their way of reducing the shame.

I don’t want to dwell too long on those scenes. What interests me is telling how far the imagination of someone who thinks money buys any answer can go.

***

One night a woman hired me. Her name was Beatriz, and she booked me into a downtown hotel, a suite overlooking the river. The setup looked straight out of a movie: candles, champagne, black lingerie, soft music. She paid me double my usual rate in advance and asked me to be sweet.

I was sweet. I did everything she asked, in the order she asked for it. I undressed her slowly, kissed down her neck, her nipples already hard and outlined through the lace, moved down her stomach with my mouth, licked the insides of her thighs until she opened her legs all the way. I ate her pussy patiently, sucking her clit with my lips, sliding my tongue between her swollen folds, while she gripped my head with both hands and guided the pace. I put two fingers into her until everything inside her started clenching and she came against my mouth, soaking my chin.

Then she asked me to fuck her slowly. I got on top, spread her legs, sank into her wet cunt with a slow thrust and stayed still for a second, feeling her breathe against my neck. I started moving with long, deep drives, looking into her eyes like she wanted, pulling almost all the way out before going back in. I kissed her mouth while I fucked her, biting her lip, while she dug her nails into my back and told me “deeper, like that, like that.” She came again beneath me, squeezing my cock with wet spasms, and I held out until she asked me to come inside the condom. It was good, even. When we finished, while I was getting dressed, I saw her phone propped against the mirror on the dresser, the camera pointed at the bed. She’d been recording everything.

—Don’t worry —she said, without moving, smoking a cigarette on the rumpled sheet—. Your face doesn’t show. You’re just a body.

I asked her what the video was for. She told me, with a calm that raised the hair on the back of my neck, that her husband had been cheating on her for two years with a coworker, that she knew everything, that she’d hired a lawyer, and that this recording was the final blow. She was going to send it to him the next day, along with the divorce papers.

I left without saying anything. The next day I deleted her number from my contacts, but for weeks I kept thinking about the husband. I didn’t know him, I had no reason to care, and yet I was left with a dirty feeling, as if I’d been used for a revenge I hadn’t signed up for.

***

And we come to the hospital night, the one that put an end to the job.

The client was named Hernán. He was a forty-five-year-old executive, handsome, gym-built. He hired me for three hours in an apartment he rented by the night downtown. Before we started he showed me a little box with blue pills and said, smiling, that he’d taken two.

—I want to last all night —he said.

And from the first minute it was clear he meant it. He took out his already hard cock, brought on by the pills: long, thick, veins standing out, the glans swollen and purple. He made me kneel and suck him off first, without hesitation, shoving my head to the base, making me take the whole thing until tears sprang to my eyes and I was drooling on his balls. He’d yank it out of my mouth, smack my face with it, and shove it back in. Then he laid me face down on the bed, spread my legs with his knees, smeared my ass with cold lube from a big bottle, and drove into me to the hilt in one thrust.

He started fucking me with a mechanical rhythm, long, nonstop. Twenty minutes in he made me change positions. He put me on my back, lifted my legs over his shoulders, and went in again. At forty minutes he put me on all fours and fucked me from behind, gripping my hips, spanking me so hard the sound echoed through the room. At an hour he sat me on top of him and made me ride him, while he pinched my nipples and licked my neck. At an hour and a half he still hadn’t come. His cock was still hard as a rock, driven by the chemistry of the pills, indifferent to fatigue.

The lubricant did its job at first. Then came a moment when no lubricant was enough. I felt a dull burn at first, then a cutting sting every time he came out and went back in. I asked him to stop. He said it was almost over. I asked him to stop two more times, my voice muffled against the pillow. He kept going. He paid well and I was young and stupid, and I thought I could hold out a little longer, that after all it was my job.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

At three hours we changed again. He put me on my back at the edge of the bed, knees folded against my chest, and drove his cock into an ass that no longer felt like mine. Every thrust was a dry stab. I clenched my teeth and counted the blows so I wouldn’t think. He finally came at three-thirty in the morning, with a long groan, emptying himself inside with a discharge that felt hot and burning at the same time, like he was pouring boiling water into an open wound. He withdrew slowly, satisfied, and when his cock came out of my ass, something else came out too: a thread of pink cum mixed with blood.

We finished at four in the morning. When I got up from the bed I felt a strange heat between my legs, and when I looked in the bathroom I saw blood running down the inside of my thigh in a thick, dark trail. It wasn’t a little.

I dressed as best I could, went down to the street, got a taxi, and told the driver to take me to the nearest hospital. The doctor on duty saw me without asking questions. Significant anal tear, he said. Three weeks of rest, no penetration for at least two months, a long course of antibiotics and wound-healing medication. He prescribed something for the pain and sent me home in another taxi at dawn.

I spent ten days unable to sit properly. In that time I did the math. I’d been doing it for three and a half years. I had enough money to live comfortably for well over a year. I was twenty-five. I had an unfinished degree and a list of things I’d always said I’d do “when I quit.”

I quit. I moved to another city, finished school, found an office job, and for years now nobody in my new life has known anything about any of this.

***

If someone is reading this and pays for sex, I’m asking you for just one thing: treat the person who comes to your home like a person. Not like a food order, not like a rented doll, not like a container. On the other side there is someone who also has a mother, who also has a body that hurts when you force it, who also wants to walk home that night.

And if you can’t do that, at least pay what your depravity costs. Because the hospital bill isn’t paid by the person who hurt you. You pay it, in silence, at dawn, while deciding whether that night was the last one or whether you still have a little more endurance left in you.