Part 3: In which I fall in lust, and face the consequences...
At last I'm free of Luis. I no longer need an 'agent'. But I've learned enough from my time as a 'Midnight Cowboy' to go solo. I look at myself naked in the mirror, pose and preen, Wow, I look good, so hot. Look at me, look at me, the delicious curve of my arse, peach-round and just as succulent, the arrogant thrust of my prong, big enough to be tasty and desirable without being so big it's scary, I like looking at my penis anyway -- hell, it's so perfect I'd love to suck it myself if only I could, it's where my personality resides. It's more me than I am. It controls, dominates and drives me. And the juicy sweetmeat fruit attached -- you know those valentine's-day cards with perfectly executed hearts? turn that heart upside-down, that's the exact symmetry of my balls -- are they too distended? do they hang too low where they should be tight and high? does that mean I've been cumming too much, too frequently? more than's good for me?
Hell no, there are guys out there who'd really get off on this, there are wealthy guys who'd blow a thousand-watt fuse seeing this, hell even I'd do me if I could. The only commodity I have that they want is my sex. The only thing I have to trade is myself. So be it. It's not even about being gay. To me, to be homosexual is the capacity to fall in love with your own gender. I've never loved, and been loved by anyone. Maybe that's sad? Maybe it is, but that's the way it is. What we do is just sex, just bodies, just gratification. Orientation doesn't figure in that equation.
So we decide, me and my inner twin, that we prefer older men who look after me, take care of me, make my decisions for me. So increasingly we gravitate towards them, wealthy, more sophisticated men. Men have always taken advantage of my gullibility, of my trusting nature. Back then, I was younger, I thought all I had to do to attract a new patron was give a coquettish fuck-me smile. And it works. It's almost like a job interview, which in a sense, it is. I'm offering my services, they're weighing up whether I'll be worth the running costs. Every boy has his price, I'm just more honest about the transaction than most.
I quickly learn how to get sympathy from men, while arousing them too. Men are stupid. Men are shallow creatures. Vain and self-centred. So long as you flatter, pleasure, or communicate with them through their genitals, you've got their souls. At least for a brief while. For long enough. I develop a number of elaborate hard-luck stories I tell to explain myself. Inventing autobiographies of deprivation, bereavement, cruel step-fathers, orphanages and institutions in which I was subject to bullying ordeals. The sexual betrayal and abusive relationships I've lived through. Of course, certain elements of what I say might be true. Sometimes I vary it to amuse myself, or to conform more to my confidante's expectations. Until the real and unreal becomes confused in my mind and the borders of imagining are no longer clear.
I confide my fantasies with a genuinely convincing sob in my voice because, by now, I almost believe it myself. The emotions are real. My listeners -- my targets are always volubly sympathetic. They're moved by the deep wells of sadness in my eyes. And they are always aroused. At that moment they want nothing more than to be my benefactor, they want to save me and compensate for all the things I've endured. Even if, through my sensual gratitude, they benefit from being the agent of my salvation. The secrets I divulge advertise my skills and dexterity, and explain my need to be used and sexually dominated. When I get to go down on them, which I inevitably do, they know in advance that they're going to get a superbly satisfying blowjob, and that I'll get erotic and psychological satisfaction from giving it. Hence all parties are pleasured.
My stories are a kind of verbal foreplay. I repay my Sugar-Daddies in the only way I'm capable, and I give good value. Since then I've been 'owned' by a series of generous patrons who look after my material needs, merely on the understanding that I serve their sexual requirements. An understanding I consider myself fortunate enough to enjoy. I give good value, and they show their appreciation. Why work when you can play? Why seek gainful employment when everything about your nature is repelled by the very idea? Why worry about messing up the job-orders and getting bawled out by the line-manager in a disciplinary session? Why go through the meaningless pretence of enduring interviews for minimum-wage positions, faking an enthusiasm for the benefit of some dull grey little non-entity, as though your greatest life-ambition is to flip his burgers or stack his supermarket shelves, when there's so many better, more pleasurable ways to live your life?
Don't get me wrong, make no mistake about it, I like to fuck if the circumstances are right, it's just that I prefer to be fucked. Perhaps that's a kind of laziness? Not having to take the initiative. Not having to endure the humiliation of rejection or rebuff. This way, I don't have to make the approaches, because it's me that's propositioned. I don't have to seduce, I am seduced. I don't pursue, I am pursued. I don't persist, I yield. I don't buy, I am purchased. I'm not competing, I am the prize. I can do consensual. Sure, when it's something -- or somebody, I really want, I can manipulate. But I can never be the predator in a relationship, I merely make it known that I'm available. That's enough.
And as a result, I've travelled the world, stayed in villas and hotels, sucked the cocks of aristocrats, politicians, business tycoons and a TV-personality whose fans would never believe he enjoys the intimate attentions of joy-boys -- but he does, he comes back for seconds, and thirds in the space of the same evening. He's a degenerate's degenerate. A Satyr in near-orange fake-tan. And I take every inch of him. Viewers of his TV game-show would never believe the games he puts me through. I've done it on yachts, in expensive cars, in private planes and Jacuzzis.
Was I a victim? Some might say I was. I never saw it that way. There was never a situation, not even of the most extreme nature, that I'd not actively contrived myself into, or was at least complicit in. In my saner, more rational moments, I accept there's no-one else to blame, no-one responsible for the events of my life but myself. I never saw myself as a victim. The opposite in fact, I felt I was special. I was exploiting their need. For something as simple as an occasional blow-job, sometimes as infrequently as twice a day, by which time I'm impatient for some action anyway, it's no big deal -- hell, I'd be doing that regardless, somewhere else with someone different. And yet for so little, I was getting all this life-style.
I've loved every minute of it. When sex is a direct commercial transaction there's none of that seduction awkwardness. None of that second-guessing his intentions, 'am I taking it too fast or too slow? What will he think of me afterwards? Will he still respect me... blah blah blah'. It's just, he tells me what to do, and I do it. Simple! Of course, some of my gentlemen have been more demanding than others, but they've been more exciting. For as long as I was their flavour of the month, I consider it all part of my duties. Things that, even months before, I'd have found bizarrely intimidating, now seem like voyages into exotic extremes. Part of my sentimental education.
