I celebrated New Year’s Eve that year with Alice, Andrew and Paul. Drunk on Pernod and black currant, Alice leaned across the table and said to me:
“Oooh, love, forget that bleedin’ Patrick. I’ve got a great idea for the New Year.... I’ve been looking in
Gay Times
for business ideas and I’ve come up with ‘Tiger Boys,’ I’m going to open up an escort agency.”
“Do you know anything about running an escort agency?” I asked incredulously.
“NO,” laughed mad Alice.
“But who is going to run it?”
“You are!” she grinned.
In London in 1985, there were three gay escort agencies and five individual escort ads. Twenty-three years later there are three times as many agencies and about five hundred escort ads, not counting what is posted online. Back in the day the agencies and the gay escorts all advertised in
Gay Times
. One of the agencies was called “Number One.”
A few days had passed and Alice and I were sitting eating cheese and onion sandwiches at the front desk of the Tiger.
“Alice, I have no idea how to run an escort agency,” I said.
“Well, you wank plenty of men off in that massage room . . . how difficult can it be?”
“What does that have to do with running an escort service?”
“Listen, I’ve got it all planned. You’ll go for an interview with one of the agencies pretending you want to be a hooker . . . I mean escort. You’ll find out how much they charge per booking, how many bookings you can expect a day, and we are up and running!”
“Hmm . . . I would feel nervous calling them.”
“I did that already. You’ve got an interview in Kings Cross in an hour.”
“You called them?”
“Yes. I said I was your crippled mother and needed cash as I was bedridden. Try to do an Irish accent like mine.”
“But I have massages booked. . . .”
“Ooh, love, Andrew said he would cover for you. The agency’s called Number One and you’re to meet someone called Jonathan. Here’s the address.”
The interview went amazingly well. Jonathan was a nice guy and told me bookings were 25 pounds for an in-call and sky’s the limit for an outcall. I could keep all my tips. Out of the 25 pounds, the agency got £7.50. So I would earn 17.50 pounds an hour—with tip probably 30 pounds. Jonathan told me I could do up to ten bookings a day and make a fortune. Hotel bookings could bring in as much as 100 pounds per hour.
“Are you top, bottom or versatile?” He asked.
“Hmm . . . versatile, I suppose, but I don’t want to get fucked or fuck anybody without seeing them first.”
“You can’t be picky, you’ll get used to it. Most of them want to suck your dick and, because you’re young, eat your arse.”
“Do you own the agency?” I asked.
“No, that’s Andy. You’ll never meet him. He’s very secretive. An escort tried to stab him once after drinking methylated spirits, so now Andy doesn’t meet anybody. You’re not handy with a blade are you?” asked Jonathan almost suspiciously.
“No . . . of course not.”
Jonathan looked me up and down then grinned.
“I think you’re going to do really well.”
I went back to the Tiger and reported back to Alice. She cackled with glee about how much money could be made and set off to the Black Cap public house to recruit escorts. Skinny Winnie had already told Alice he/she wouldn’t mind turning tricks for the new agency but I severely doubted we would be retiring on the money made from an over-the-hill Ethiopian drag queen. Every time I went into the Black Cap it seemed to be full of speed freaks offering me “whiz” or drag queens. Good luck I thought, as Alice disappeared up the stairs.
Alice returned the Black Cap that night empty handed but drunk. She and I were at the front desk when the phone rang.
“Camden Tiger, Ben speaking,” I said. Ben was the name I used for massage work.
“Hello, Ben . . . this is Andy,” a business-like voice said. “I’ve got a 200 pound booking for you at the Savoy Hotel in half an hour . . . can you do it? I think he’s an Arab.”
I stood up, kissed Alice on the cheek and without a second thought walked out of the Tiger and into a whole new life.
Once home, I took a shower and searched through my meager wardrobe for something that would be suitable to wear to a fancy hotel. I had nothing!!! By this time I had stopped wearing all the new Romantic/Punk outfits I used to run around in and all I had were T-shirts and jeans.
I slung on a T-shirt and clean pair of jeans and prayed the security guards wouldn’t think I looked like a rent boy at the hotel. I jumped in a cab and ten minutes later stepped out at the Savoy Hotel. My heart was beating a mile a minute. What if the guy didn’t like me and sent me away and Andy never gave me a booking again and I had to go back to massaging hippos at the Tiger? All these thoughts flooded my head as I made my way to the suite on the 16th floor. I’d had no problem with the hotel security. I just swanned in like I belonged there.
I stood nervously at the client’s door and knocked. Someone in the room could be heard approaching the door and I could tell he was now looking at me through the peephole. The door opened and there stood one of the most gorgeous Arabs I had ever seen in my life.
“I think I might be at the wrong room . . . I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, no, you’re Ben, correct? Please come on in, this is the right room,” said Sexy Arab. “My name’s Omar. You are extremely beautiful.”
Well, this was going to be a piece of cake as the feeling was mutual.
“Did Andrew from the agency tell you of my problem?” asked Omar. FUCK, HE HAS A PROBLEM!!!
“No,” I answered.
“Well, the problem is my penis is incredibly large and no woman can take it which is why I hire boys . . . but it seems most boys can’t even get it in their mouths let alone allow me the honor of making love to them.”
Was he joking? I was being paid 200 pounds to try and cram a monster cock into my mouth and he was apologizing! I had a massive hard-on.
“Hmm . . . oh dear, I hope I’ll be to your satisfaction,” I breathed, trying to sound seductive.
“Andrew told me you were a virgin.” I burst out laughing and then realized he was serious. Quickly I tried to cover my mistake.
“Virgin . . . oh, yes, this is my first time,” I stammered, trying to sound coy. “Be gentle with me, Omar.”
Saying this, I ripped off his underwear like I was a wolverine and he was smuggling a baby lamb in his knickers. And boy, it WAS the size of a baby lamb! His cock was huge! I fell to my knees, stretched my jaws like one of those snakes you see on the Discovery Channel swallowing a pet poodle, and Omar fell back on the bed moaning with pleasure. He kept saying not to stop.
“Don’t you want to fuck me?” I gasped.
“I’m afraid it will hurt you, especially since you are a virgin.”
“Virgin? Oh, yes, well let’s try. I think I can manage,” I squealed as I did the splits on his cock like Olga Korbut on the balance beam. He felt huge inside of me and luckily he came immediately. I wasn’t sure how much of that punishment I could have taken.
When I left that night Omar pushed five hundred pounds into my hand. FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!!! I floated out of the Savoy on a cloud of cash. I had discovered my dream career. Andy phoned almost the minute I walked in the door.
“Omar loved you, he wants to see you again tomorrow night. And I’ve got another call for you in Shepherd’s Bush. Can you be there in forty-five minutes?”
And that was how it all began. Andy would call me at least five times a day with bookings, and being so young and incredibly horny, I did them all. Of course, I soon realized that not every client was going to look like Omar or be as much fun, but I fell into the swing of things pretty quickly. If some ugly is sucking your cock, just close your eyes and think of that new sofa and voila! Ugly Gob turns into Mister Gorgeous.
After a couple of months of working, I still hadn’t met the mysterious Andy. We talked frequently on the phone and he began to confide in me. He didn’t have many friends, it seemed, and those he had were hookers that worked for him, many of whom had ripped him off by running away without paying him. I was young but I wasn’t stupid. I always made sure he got his cut on time and I reported the exact amount the client gave me.
What I found so fascinating about the job was that I would meet all sorts of interesting men from all over the world. Invariably, they were successful businessmen who were married with children, exactly the type of men who turned me on most.
An interesting aspect about escorting is that a lot of the clients confide in you as if you were their psychiatrist. They would explain to me that they were secretly gay but had gotten married due to society’s pressures and because it was expected of them. I learned over the years that there are tons of gay men trapped in marriages with wives who never know about their husbands’ secret longings and desires.
Over the two years I worked for Andy I built up an enormous list of regular clients. Andy gave me a lot of work because I was extremely honest and didn’t mind getting up at two and three o’clock in the morning to turn a trick. This, of course, got really old, really quickly. Andy was the type of guy that would call you up and say, “Ben, I have a booking for you. You have to be Italian.”
“But, Andy, I have blonde hair.”
“Well, can’t you run down to the supermarket and buy a black dye and run it through your hair? He’ll be at your place in thirty minutes.”
If you refused, Andy would cut off further work until you apologized for not being more agreeable. He would toss you a few severely overweight clients as punishment, then you would return to the full time work until you refused again, then the whole cycle would start all over. So, yep, I was loaded, but I had no life of my own, being at the constant beck and call of Andy.
One day Andy phoned with a real surprise.
“Listen, do you fancy going to Brazil? To Rio?” he asked.
“With a client?” I gasped.
“No,” a long pause. “With me, I was supposed to go with a college friend, but they let me down. So I thought maybe we could go together.”
Now remember, I had no idea what Andy looked like and he only had a description of me from various clients. I felt put on the spot. Would declining hurt my chances of getting the better clients?
“Well, I’ve been buying a lot of clothes and furniture, so I don’t know if I have enough cash.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied, “I’ll give you more work. So you’ll have plenty of money to pay your expenses.”
Hmm, Brazil. I’d never been, but it sounded fabulous and exotic and I loved Brazilians.
“OK, let’s do it, it will be sensational, we’ll have a blast together,” I gushed, hoping for the best in spite of my fears.
“Oh, there’s one more thing. Skinhead Michael will be there with a client of his. The client’s a paraplegic.”
Skinhead Michael was another boy who worked for Andy. I had met Michael when he and I did a threesome with a client who wanted us to bathe him, powder him then put him in a diaper. It’s a form of sex called infantilism and seemed to be very popular with straight, powerful businessmen. I was always popping down to Mothercare to buy diapers. I told the girl behind the counter I had an aged father who had bladder control issues so I needed XXXL and she gave me a discount.
Michael lived in a freezing cold apartment in South Kensington. By day he was a skinhead, and by night he was a drag queen called Maria Malapasta. He worshipped Maria Callas and his sole aim in life was to meet some ninety-year-old millionaire who would drop dead and leave him everything.
I thought even if I didn’t like Andy I would have a laugh capering on the sands of Ipanema with Skinhead Michael, so I accepted Andy’s offer to go to Rio de Janeiro.
“Darling, you must be simply insane! Do you have any idea what Andy looks like?” I was sitting in Harry’s Bar in London with my friend Shakira, a thousand-pound-an-hour hooker. I had met her when Andy had called me and asked if I could fuck a girl while a client watched. I had fucked girls before but very rarely. Most of the time I had pretended to be drunk, which justified why I couldn’t get a hard-on when I made out with them. I explained this to Andy, but he told me Shakira was exceptional, a stunning Indian goddess whom clients paid a fortune to fuck.
The first time I met her outside the Dorchester Hotel, she climbed out of a black Porsche wearing a tangerine suede miniskirt, thigh-high suede Manolo Blahnik boots of the same color and matching lipstick.
“Darling, you’re gorgeous,” she shrieked. “Now don’t stand there with your mouth open, let’s take this bastard for every penny he has.”
“But I don’t know if I’ll be able to fuck you.”
“You’re hilarious!” she laughed “Of course you’ll be able to.” She looked at me with Persian kitten eyes and stroked her waist-length black hair and I knew right there I’d have no problem.
She dragged me up to the client’s suite.