What I Lived Through as a Male Escort for Three Years

I started doing this at twenty-two. Not out of vocation, but because I owed two months’ rent and a friend passed me the contact for an agency looking for guys. I thought it would be three months, four at most. I lasted almost four years. What I’m about to tell you I’m not writing to scandalize anyone or to make myself sound interesting. It’s what I saw, what I put up with, what stayed inside me. If anyone reading this ever pays for company, let them remember that on the other side there is a person with a name, with a home, with a mother.

In this line of work you never know who you’re going to walk into the room with. Sometimes someone decent shows up, someone who treats you well, asks how you are, pays without haggling, and leaves. Those clients helped me keep going. But most of the time it isn’t like that. Most of the time the one who pays thinks he has a right to everything. That your body, for as long as the service lasts, is an object that can be used, dirtied, broken. And then taken back home.

***

The first one I remember almost every week was a man of about fifty-something. He weighed well over three hundred pounds. He had pale skin, small eyes, and a smile that on another face would have seemed kind. My rule was that the client had to shower before we started. Non-negotiable. He followed it. He came out of the bathroom with the towel pulled tight around his waist, smelling of soap, and five minutes later he was already starting to sweat.

The sweat wasn’t the problem. The problem was the smell. Something sour, almost chemical, as if his body processed the fat and expelled it with a rancid edge. It got up into my nose and wouldn’t leave, not even after the shower afterward. I carried it with me in the taxi, in my building’s elevator, in my bed.

When he asked me for oral sex, you had to push flesh folds aside, hold them with one hand while with the other you found the way in. It was an expedition. His cock came out heavy, purple at the tip, and when you took it into your mouth you felt the wet heat, the salty taste, the foreskin sliding against your lips. I had to swallow constantly so I wouldn’t choke. More than once I gagged. One night I vomited in his bathroom and told him it was from something I’d eaten at dinner. He laughed, told me not to worry, that it had happened with other guys too. He said it without malice, almost tenderly. That disgusted me more than the rest.

For him to penetrate me, it was impossible to stay underneath. I’d sit on top, wet the entrance with my hand, find the position, and let him in slowly because if he went in all at once it was a dry, wrenching pain. Then I’d ride him, hands braced on his chest, feeling my asscheeks part with every thrust, feeling the sweaty skin of his thighs stick to mine, until he finished. The bed shook, the sheets soaked up his sweat, and I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the paint, repeating to myself how much I was going to get paid and what I was going to use the money for. That night I paid the electric bill. The next one, half the rent.

***

The show orgy was proposed to me by a regular client, an elegant guy, a lawyer or something like that, who one day told me he’d pay me three times my rate if I took part in a private party at his villa out on the outskirts. I said yes without thinking. I got there on a Saturday at eleven at night.

There were five men who were going to be with me. Plus another six or seven watching, all with a drink in hand, all dressed as if it were just some cocktail party. They made me strip naked in the middle of the living room. I started sucking them one by one, kneeling on the rug, my knees digging into the wool and my mouth open as I swallowed cock after cock of different sizes, different tastes, each one wetter than the last from the mix of saliva and pre-cum. Some of them grabbed the back of my neck, others held my face still to push themselves all the way in and hear me choke. The rest commented as if I were a piece on the auction block.

—He’s got a good mouth —one said.

—Look at how his back is marking up —said another.

—He can take the pace, this one can.

They talked about me in the third person, right in front of me, as if I didn’t understand the language.

After that they penetrated me too, one by one. One of them laid me face down and opened my hole with his fingers while another held my hips. The first went in slowly, but by the second they were filling me in turns, making me endure the stabbing pain of stretched flesh, the hard slap of their balls against my thighs, the sway of their hips slamming into me like I was a mattress. The fourth and fifth at the same time. That was no longer in the contract. One shoved his cock into me from behind while another made me bend over and pushed himself into my mouth. My throat burned, my ass stung, and I didn’t know where one ended and the next began. I took it because I thought that if I stopped everything, I wouldn’t get paid. When they finished, they came over me, on my chest, on my face, on my back, warm and thick, running down my chin and getting tangled in the hairs on my chest. And then what really marked me began: two of the ones who’d been watching came up and pissed all over me. One pushed my hair out of my face to do it better. Then three more. I stayed still, mouth shut, feeling the hot stream run over my stomach, my groin, my thighs, and the sour smell flooding everything. When they let me go to the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I smelled like something that doesn’t come off with soap.

Did I get paid? Yes. I got paid more than I would have in two normal months. But that night I didn’t sleep, and neither did I the next.

***

Speaking of urine, I had for almost a year a steady client whose only interest was that. He was an older man, in his sixties, retired, widowed. A retired math professor. He lived alone in a spotless apartment full of books and plants he watered before we started, as if order mattered. The first time I went to his place I thought he was going to ask for something conventional. He spoke calmly, poured me tea before we began, and asked me about my family.

What he wanted was for me to give him oral sex, slowly, with my tongue tracing his glans and balls with almost academic patience, and when I finished, for me to piss on him. In the shower, though, everything very neat. He’d stand up, wrap both hands around my waist, and ask me to soak his chest, stomach, and face while he moaned softly, not taking off his glasses until the very end. Afterward he’d shower, give me the money in a sealed envelope, and invite me for more tea, this time seated on the sofa. We talked about his dead wife, public education, the trips he meant to take and never did. He was the most polite client I had, and one of the strangest. He died of a heart attack in the second year. I found out from the obituary in the newspaper. I cried for two days, not really knowing why.

***

But if we’re talking about depravity, there’s one name that got burned into my memory and that obviously I’m not putting here. A guy with money, owner of an estate two hours from the city, where he bred racing horses. In society he presented himself as a macho, bragged about the women he slept with, told stories about yachts and hunts in Africa. With me he got on all fours and asked me to treat him like a bitch. Whips, a riding crop, insults, a collar. He liked pain. That, in itself, didn’t seem wrong to me. To each their own, as long as everything is agreed beforehand and everything respected afterward.

What I wouldn’t accept was what he asked me the third time. After a while of play, when he was already sweating and aroused, he asked if I wanted to make ten times my rate by doing something special. I asked what. He took me to the stable, pointed to one of the horses, a huge stallion, dark, with a glossy coat. He told me he wanted to see me with the animal.

I thought it was a joke. I laughed. He wasn’t laughing. He repeated it to me, this time very seriously, and told me the exact price in a low voice. I said no. He insisted. He offered me double. I said no again, and asked him to take me to the nearest train station. On the way he didn’t say a word to me. He left me in the parking lot and drove off. He never contacted me again. I had nightmares for weeks about the stable and the animal staring at me from the dark.

***

There are other requests I used to think were urban legends. Things people told to shock others and nothing more. But they exist; I’ve had them right in front of me. Once a new man came to see me, referred by another client, and asked me to defecate on him. I don’t know how else to say it. And not only that, afterward he wanted to eat it. I said no, gave him back the deposit, and asked him to leave. He did it without arguing. He thanked me at the door and went down the stairs whistling, as if nothing had happened.

Another request that left me speechless was from someone who wanted me to make a small cut on his thigh, with a sterilized scalpel he brought in a bag, and then suck his blood. I also said no. Not so much because of the cut, which I probably could have handled, but because of everything else. Because of what it meant, because of where that could go next time.

***

One of the strangest situations wasn’t the most violent or the dirtiest. It was a woman. One of the few women I was with in those years. She hired me for an entire night in a downtown hotel. She booked a suite with a view of the river. She explained, while uncorking a bottle of cava, that her husband had been cheating on her for three years with his secretary, that she had proof, that it hurt so much she could barely breathe. She wanted sex. We started. Ten minutes in, already on the bed, she had me on top of her, made me enter her slowly while she dug her nails into my back, and she took the phone out of her bag and started taking pictures with me. Selfies with my head between her legs, short videos, carefully chosen angles. I asked what she was doing.

—Tomorrow at breakfast I’m sending them to him —she told me—. While he’s having coffee with my mother.

I asked her not to show my face. She agreed. She kept her word, as far as I know. But the feeling of being an instrument, not a body but a lever to hurt someone else, that feeling stayed inside me for several days. I left the hotel at nine the next morning with a heavy head and an envelope in my pocket. I bought a coffee on the corner and couldn’t drink it.

***

The one that ended my career, however, wasn’t any of those. It was another one. A new client, recommended by a client’s friend, who took pills to keep an erection for hours. He didn’t tell me. I thought it was a normal service and within fifteen minutes I already knew it wasn’t.

He was big. And hard. And he wouldn’t stop. He had me face down, gripping my hips, thrusting again and again with mechanical force, and his cock seemed like it would never soften. More than forty minutes had passed when I started to feel a different pain, deeper, not muscular but like something breaking inside. The entrance was burning, the walls of my ass were stinging, and each time he went in again I felt a stab rising up into my belly. I asked him to stop. He didn’t stop. I told him seriously, that something wasn’t right. It took him another minute to stop. When I sat up, the bed was stained with blood. Not a little.

I took a taxi to the hospital. Second-degree tear. They stitched me up. I spent ten days barely able to walk, a full week with pain that forced me to take painkillers every six hours. The client didn’t return my calls. The agency told me it was part of the job, that it happened.

That night, in the hospital waiting room, with the white light burning my eyes, I decided I wasn’t going back. And I didn’t.

***

I’m telling all this without any morbid fascination. There’s no morbid fascination in what I lived through. There’s a body that belonged to other people for four years, and pain that’s still there, in my lower back when it rains, and in certain dreams that come without warning. There were good clients too, of course. Polite, grateful people who paid without arguing and left without leaving a trace. But they’re not the ones you remember.

If you hire someone to spend time with you, to give you company or sex, remember something simple. That person has a life outside that room. They have parents, siblings, friends, dreams. They are not an object. They are not a piece of meat. And whatever you do to them, they carry it with them when they leave. Forever.