PG Prostitute

"No, it's not okay," I said firmly. He looked up at me, confused. "I judged you strictly based on appearances and assumed that just because you look intimidating you were dangerous. That's not only unprofessional, it's just plain rude. I'm sorry."

He grinned. "You're forgiven."

"Would you like a hug?"

"What else am I paying you for?"

I laughed and went over to him as he stood up. Let me tell you, it's strange as a full-grown adult to be hugged by a person that much larger than you. My eyes were about as high up as his sternum. I was doing my best to wrap my arms around his torso, but it felt like trying to hug a gigantic tree. He couldn't hug me normally, so he sort of just laid his arms down on my back. It was awkward, but felt oddly good. When his arms were around me it felt like my body was being completely engulfed in his. It felt like he was trying to protect me.

Much of that Friday evening was spent with him sitting on a chair reading a book and me sitting on his lap. It readily produced memories of me sitting in my father's lap when I was a toddler. After an hour or two of him reading, he marked his place and turned me in his lap so he could talk to me.

"I have to say, Tristan, I'm impressed."

"With what, exactly?"

"Well, there are a bunch of questions I get asked the moment people meet me and you haven't asked any of them."

"If you're willing to vent or rant, be my guest. I'm a great listener."

He smiled. "I mostly just find it funny. It's kind of odd how it's not seen as socially acceptable to go up to a short person and say 'wow, you're short,' but 'wow, you're tall' is often the first thing a person says to me. People assume I had to have played basketball at some point, too."

"Any basketball team would love to have you. You could probably do a slam-dunk without jumping."

He chuckled. "I only ever played baseball."

"Oh, come on, dude, work with what you've got! There are so many sports out there where you'd dominate. Football, for example. Imagine somebody trying to tackle you. You could just casually walk to a touchdown!"

He laughed harder. I continued.

"Or hell, even volleyball. You'd be the perfect block! You'd just be like a wall!"

He let out a very deep, very loud laugh that I assume is the laugh he has when he can't control himself. I felt a flash of pride.

"Wow, Tristan, you're funny! You actually remind me of my son. He loves making jokes about how tall I am."

"I'm sure your son is pretty tall, too."

"Yeah, he's 6-foot-four."

As we talked more, I concluded what I tended to concerning all the people who bought me for a weekend. I know that there are implications about them as people, but the long and short of it all is, they're just lonely and want somebody next to them. That was essentially my reasoning for taking that Craigslist job years ago.

Adam married his high school sweetheart, a girl named Nathalie, and they had two children, a son and a daughter. They both grew up, flew the coop, and got their own spouses. His daughter is older and even had a kid the prior year, and he was so proud and happy about that.

The problem was that a few years ago, Adam became a widower when his wife died of lung cancer. His children had their own families, their own homes, their own lives, so the had to just visit when they could. Adam was lonely. He knew that his heart would beat for no other than his late wife, but he still wanted the feeling of somebody next to him.

Adam mostly treated me like one of his kids. He'd hug and hold me, but didn't kiss me and I slept in another bed. My tastes leaned more towards the Jude type, fully tactile, but I enjoyed my weekend with Adam immensely. He was a wise, kind man.

I woke up in the middle of the second night needing to take a piss. I took care of my business in the bathroom and as I was leaving I heard a sound coming from Adam's room, which was next door.

It was sobbing.

I had a war in my head over whether or not I should do something. On one hand, if I were crying in the middle of the night, I'd want to be left alone, but the pain in his cries made me want to comfort him so badly. My conscience won out and I knocked on his door, saying "It's Tristan. I'm coming in, if that's okay."

He didn't tell me to go away, so I opened the door and entered.

Adam was sitting on his California king-sized bed, hanging his head and weeping. I quietly sat down next to him. My initial idea of what to say ("are you okay?") was asinine, so I went with the more direct "What's wrong, Adam?"

It took a minute for him to calm down enough to speak.

"I'm just thinking about Nathalie. She's been gone for years, but sometimes the emotions well up and I can't control them. I'm sorry."

I put my hand on his arm, which was as big as my leg.

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

He kept crying.

Okay, I have two sets of rules I have to follow when I'm working: the one laid out in the contract, and one I keep in my head. One of my personalized rules is to not be pushy. If I wanted to be hugged or held or cuddled, I wouldn't flat out ask for it. I'd only ask in the form of "Would you like..." so the client would have it be their conscious decision. I wouldn't just go up to people and get all over them, because that makes some people really uncomfortable. I wanted to say something, but I chose my words carefully, keeping that in mind.

"Adam, I won't pretend like I know what you're feeling. I don't know much about your life. One thing I do know is that sometimes people can get through their emotions easier through touching. Would you like to hug me, or hold me?"

After a few seconds he nodded. He then gave me an awkward, sideways hug. I don't think it helped much. He was so sad still and things were going nowhere. This man had been so kind, so thoughtful. I wanted to help more, so I allowed myself to become bolder.

"I may be out of line for saying this, but I feel like you want to do more than what you're doing. I know you would never do anything that breached the contract, so I would just like to remind you that I've given you my body to use this weekend. You don't have to be afraid to do more."

I paused, unsure of whether or not to continue. I decided to keep talking.

"I also feel like I'm on friendly terms with you. I like being your friend. Because of that, I don't enjoy seeing you this upset. It makes me sad, too, even more so if I think I could help, but don't have the chance to. Please, Adam, if you want to lose some control, I won't judge you. I promise."

Things got quiet. I assumed that I'd gone too far. I was kicking myself when Adam interrupted my thoughts by letting out a loud wail and pulling me closer.

I doubted he was in a state of mind where he was fully conscious of what he was doing, but it did surprise me when he picked up my entire body and cradled me in his arms like a baby. I drew up my legs so that they weren't flopping around and he rocked me, subtly enough that I don't think he even knew he was doing it. I didn't say a word. I just nuzzled his neck.

He cried at full force, but he gradually calmed down. Once he was done he gave me the gentlest kiss on the forehead before putting me down.

"Thanks, Tristan. Please go back to sleep now, I feel better."

I nodded and returned to my room.

Adam didn't bring up the previous night's events that morning, so I didn't either. He went back to the more fatherly kind of cuddling, but he seemed a little more relaxed. We hugged one last time before I left. I remember wanting that hug to last longer than it did.

Being able to say I occasionally helped people was amazing to me. Helping people like Adam is another reason why I love my job.

*****

It says on my website that all my clients need to be over eighteen years of age, but that doesn't mean I didn't interact with kids while working.

One of my clients was a single dad named Damien. He had an 8-year-old named Hunter, and I spent the weekend with both of them. Something about that seemed really weird, though I can't exactly say why.

I can say that it was amusing to hear Damien try to explain to Hunter why exactly I was there. He didn't need think so much about it, most of the implications of my line of work aren't due to things a kid would think. He fumbled for a bit until I decided to take things into my own hands.

"Hunter, do you have a blanket or stuffed animal or something you like holding?"

He nodded. "I got a stuffed rhino named Steve."

A rhino named Steve. Have you ever just taken a moment to appreciate how creatively uncreative children are?

"Okay. You like holding him. It makes you feel nice. My job is to be what Steve is to you to grown-ups like your Dad. He asked me to stay for the weekend so he can hug me and hold me. I'm going to be his Steve for the next few days."

He nodded and grinned, exposing a missing tooth in the front.

"You can also hug me as much as you want."

"Thanks, Mr. Tristan!" He hugged me and went off to do something else.

Damien smiled weakly. "Thanks for that. I was panicking a little."

"Most of the reason why what I do is weird is because of sex. Kids don't know about that yet, so it wouldn't be weird to them."

"Good point."

I knew how to speak their language, having been one myself at one point, but I wouldn't really say I'm good with kids. I prefer animals. It's not like I hate kids or anything, though. As annoying as they can be, I know why they are the way they are, but I feel a bit awkward having to interact with them.

I know it makes me sound like a dick, but kids are just exhausting. It's exhausting to try to keep up with their pretend games and fantasies (hell, the kids barely know what's happening, either), it's exhausting how they blow things out of proportion and make everything the biggest deal in the world. It's especially exhausting how they can stay in motion and continuously talk for hours.

For the most part, Damien kept Hunter occupied. He liked the kid enough to indulge all the billions of things Hunter wanted to do and say, so thankfully I wouldn't have to. Even so, Hunter liked me very much. He would hug me, crawl all over me, and occasionally climb on me until Damien made him stop. On the Friday night the three of us watched Spirited Away, one of my all-time favorite movies. Damien had already seen it, too, but that night was Hunter's first time seeing it. It seems to be one of those movies that will get kids to sit still and not talk too much for an extended length of time, and he enjoyed it. The entire time, he sat in my lap.

Hunter went to bed at 9 PM and Damien was happy to have me all to himself. We spent the evening in his room. He played games on his Nintendo Switch, wrapping his arms around me so that he could use the controller and snuggle with me at the same time. I wasn't kidding when I told Hunter that my job was essentially to let adults use my body. The objectification is another thing that links my work to prostitution, but I was getting paid, and I got pleasure from it, too.

After a few hours of gaming, Damien spooned me in his bed as we talked. He just told me about his life and things he liked to do as a parent.

"One thing I noticed is that not all media made for little kids is created equal. Some of it is good, but some of it is mindless trash. It's like they think kids are stupid, so they don't have to try."

"Kids are stupid; they don't know any better," I reminded him.

"Yeah, but there's something to be said in wanting to make something that adds to the kid instead of just shutting them up. Also, adults are stupid, too. What's their excuse?"

"Fair point."

"Probably the dumbest thing I ever did was when I was 19. I don't have to be family friendly with you, right?"

"Not at all." If only he knew how not family friendly some of the stories I'd heard were.

"Okay, it was the summer after my freshman year, and my parents have their anniversary in the summer. They went on a cruise for a few days by themselves, so I was home alone. I didn't have a job, so I was just hanging out at the house. For some reason, I just got a thought lodged in my head, and I couldn't push it out."

This was going to be interesting.

"I just really wanted to know how many times I could come in a row."

Huh. I guess I couldn't judge him that harshly, most men are stupid when they think with their smaller head, myself included.

"Like, until you weren't in the mood anymore?"

"No like, until I couldn't come again. I gave no thought to what the consequences of that were, I just wanted to see how many orgasms I had in me. Once again, no clue why."

"So you just jerked off?"

"Yep. I didn't take my time, either. I was jerking off like I was about to meet my girlfriend's parents and I need to make this boner go away right now."

"How'd you do?"

"I beat off furiously for three hours. I came eleven times."

I whistled.

"No, it's not something to be impressed by, kid. I should probably go into more detail. I had had multiple orgasms from sex in the past, but when I was jerking off I'd just stop. I never tried going again without a break. The first few times were great; healthy amount, felt good. Nothing earth-shattering, just the type of release I'd get if I beat off really fast."

"Then what?"

"Well, as you'd imagine, it kept taking longer and longer to come and there'd be less and less coming out. By orgasm six or seven almost nothing was coming out. That's when it started really hurting."

"I bet."

"Even so, my stupid, sex-fogged teenage brain didn't want to stop. I just kept thinking about making the next one happen. Orgasm nine was with no semen at all. It's like when you try to vomit but there's nothing in your mouth so you just dry-heave. I had every reason in the world to just call it quits then, but I kept going. The tenth one hurt like a bitch, but I kept doing it, and the eleventh one only happened a few minutes later. That time made me think I was gonna die."

"That bad, huh?"

"I had been hit right in the crotch with a paintball and it didn't hurt a fraction as much as that orgasm. I thought my dick was going to explode or fall off or something. That was the loudest I had ever screamed in my life. I couldn't move for about thirty minutes, and I seriously thought I was dying. The only thing I could feel or think about was how much pain my dick was in. Eventually, though, I was able to get to my feet and stand. I knew I wasn't gonna keel over, but I was fairly certain that I'd never be able to use my cock again, like I'd broken it. The worst part is that I did it to myself because I was a fucking idiot."

"How long did it hurt?"

"I couldn't even breathe on my dick for, like, three days. It took even longer for me to get another boner."

"Did you at least break a record?"

"Not even close. The record is 16 times in an hour."

"How is that guy even alive?"

"No idea."

The rest of the weekend with Damien and Hunter was normal, although the story I'd heard was in the back of my mind the next time I masturbated.

*****

Okay, one more story, and I knew that I had to save this one for last. This is a long one, too. It is, no contest, the strangest, sketchiest, kinkiest thing I have ever done. It did pay well, though.

(Yes, I'm shameless, but I am a type of prostitute, after all.)

It all started around the December of my sophomore year. I got an email from a user who said that they would like to ask for a special type of visit. He asked if we could meet in public and said that I could have a lawyer present if I wished. I asked my roommate to come along. This was too promising to just turn down.

The three of us met at a café on a Tuesday afternoon. He introduced himself as Bruce. He was thirty-five and had spent almost ten of those years happily married to a man named Max. For their tenth anniversary, he wanted to make his husband's ultimate fantasy, whether sexual or not, come true.

"It's not sexual, though. I promise," he assured me. "It's just odd."

Apparently, Bruce surreptitiously slipped in the question to Max during one night they were talking, and Max had had his fair share of wine. He asked to hear Max's most out-there fantasy, something he wanted to experience but knew he'd never get the chance to. "Odd" didn't do it justice, his answer was weird as shit.

Max's ultimate fantasy was to personally take care of a previously abused child, one so beaten down that they were feral. He wanted the kid to grow to love him over time, grow to trust him, and the kid would fall asleep in his arms, unafraid.

Why this was his fantasy I had no fucking clue. Why this would be anybody's fantasy was beyond me, but different strokes, different folks, I guess.

"So, you want me to play the part of the feral child?"

"Yes. You were recommended to me by a friend. She said you were a good cuddler and a good actor."

I had helped one client in the past practice for a part in a play. She had to be the friend he was referring to.

"Why Tristan, though? Why not a professional actor?" My roommate asked.

"Two reasons. One, he has experience cuddling and making people happy that the average struggling actor doesn't have, and two, I thought he would do it for a little less. My starting offer is $5000 for a 5 day stay."

I spat out the coffee I was drinking. One thousand dollars a day? Was he crazy? I was some 19-year-old nobody. I had no right to be making that kind of money.

"There's also a bonus at the end if you do a good job," Bruce said, grinning.

"He's interested," my roommate cut in, before I could rashly agree to everything, "but we'd need specifics before we want to make a decision."

"That's understandable," he conceded. "Shall we arrange another meeting to discuss the contracts in detail?"

"Yes." I said, probably a little too enthusiastically.

Later that week we set up the contracts and I got the job. (Yes, they did something like that in 50 Shades of Grey. Fuck off.) I had a month until the stay, and I spent my free time preparing myself. I had the general guidelines of the role set up, but was given rein to make it my own. I researched feral children both real and fictional. I practiced my part constantly with my roommate, which he didn't much care for. I also did a few preparations directly before the day. Exactly a week prior, Bruce told Max about what he was planning, and Max signed a contract agreeing to our terms, so I knew for sure that it was going to happen. I was contractually obligated. For the three days leading up to it I did exactly nothing in the personal hygiene department. I was completely disgusted with myself by the big day, too. I also fasted all food and water the day before, which is a step I don't recommend to anybody for any reason. I think at that point I was almost obsessed with getting this role perfect. It wasn't enough to act weak and frail, I had to be weak and frail. Call me crazy if you want, but I was technically taking part of the show of the undying love and commitment of a married couple. You wouldn't half-ass your part in something like that, would you? Plus, a thousand dollars a day, possibly more if I impressed them.

The morning of, I put on the outfit I had prepared before then: ripped, dirty jeans, a wrinkly, stained t-shirt, stale boxers, and a bracelet that said TAG on it (Yeah, those are my initials). No shoes.

My roommate drove me to Bruce and Max's house at Long Island.

"I still can't fucking believe you're doing this," he told me as we got nearer to the destination.

"It's just a normal acting gig," I said quietly. My throat hurt, and I didn't want to talk.

"This seems a touch involved for a normal gig, don't you think?"