I am a very successful businessman; six figure income, married to a very successful businesswoman, father to 4 great kids with one dirty little secret.
Despite a successful marriage and a great relationship with my wife, there has always been something missing in my life. Sex with men.
I am not talking relationships with men. I am talking about hard core, give it your all sex. As a reasonably good-looking man, I suppose I could frequent local gay bars and be sure of finding someone with whom to spend the night. But most of those men want more; something more than I am willing to give. And there is always the risk of being identified leading to explanations to family and friends.
The type of man who attracts me is not the preppy-type or the businessman-type or the blue collar-type. The type of man who really gets my juices going is the trashy or street type. Oh, and my preference is for straight, trashy, street guys. The type most guys would run from -- and smart they would be to run. The element of danger is part of the attraction.
Because I have money to burn I find no problem locating these guys. Local employment exchanges are my prime hunting ground. The places where men can find a job by the day cash on the barrelhead. I have found that if I arrive between 9:30 and 10:00 there are guys for the picking. By that time of the morning, most of the good jobs are gone and what's left is neither lucrative nor desirable. That is where I come in.
A typical day's experience will let you know what I mean:
My most favourite hunting ground is the "Corner" a location where employers in need of day labourers send trucks to pick guys up for transport to the jobsite. Usually a hundred or so show up early in the morning, about 5 am, and about eighty or ninety are chosen usually by 7-7:30. The rest -- too bad so sad.
This particular day I showed up just before 9:30. There were nine dejected men sitting around hoping against hope an employer would come by. For my hunting expeditions I drive a pickup -- not too new not too old. I turned the corner and scouted out the prospects. Among the really scuzzy types there was a younger fellow who looked reasonably good-looking and presentable.
He wore worn work boots, jeans that have seen better days and a baggy t-shirt with a couple of small holes. He had a one, or perhaps two-day, growth of beard and an unruly mop of dirty blonde hair -- speaking of its colour not its cleanliness. But his hair did look as though he just rolled out of bed without bothering to shower -- a bonus in his favour.
His nose had been broken at some stage and was slightly out of alignment. And he had a scar from the edge of the left eyebrow across to his hairline. These both spoke to a dangerous side to his character. Both added attractiveness to an otherwise ordinary face.
When I first spotted him he was slouched against the wall of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips in a manner you see in old westerns.
All nine hopefuls perked up as I arrived but I stationed my pickup closest to my chosen one. He quickly moved up and climbed in to the passenger's seat on my invitation.
I noticed immediately a number of tattoos on his arms, a couple of which looked like "prison tats' -- amateur jobs done with the limited resources in correctional institutions. Another bonus in his favour.
I also noticed the slight miasma of alcohol which could also explain why he was still here and not on a jobsite somewhere.
"What you looking for?" he asked. A standard opening for the location.
"I am looking for someone not afraid of hard work and who is not afraid of trying something new." I replied.
"Sound interesting. What's the pay like?" Also a standard response.
"For the right guy up to 250 bucks. Sometimes with a bonus but that requires some extra hard work."
"Geesus, I'm your man." Not standard but not unusual.
"Not so fast. First lets get some information. Name, age, that sort of thing."
"Uh, sure. Pete Praprosky, I'm 34, I'm a journeyman welder but I can do framing carpentry, roofing and can do plumbing and electrical if there is no inspector on-site, and I am willing to be a gofer. Whatever you want basically."
"Whatever is good. You married? Kids?" Not a standard, nor even legal, question but Pete didn't care; he needed the money.
"Yeah, married, two kids, another on the way. That's why I need the money. We came out here from the East but there are too many journeymen welders and I haven't found steady work yet."
"That's rough with that many mouths to feed. Where out East you from?"
"Conception Bay."
"Nice area, been there once, years ago."
"Yeah, so what's the job?" Pete was impatient, reminiscing not on his agenda.
"How long were you in prison?"
"Oh, fuck. A secure site, uh?" He reached for the door handle.
"Not at all. Just curious. I noticed the tats."
"So, if I tell you I still get the job?"
"Not so fast, there are other things we need to discuss but let's say it won't exclude you from the job."
"Three years. Armed robbery." He named an institution out east. "So what's the job?" again down the brass tacks.
"Let me be blunt. I'm looking for a male model for life study photography."
"What?"
"I do life studies. That is a form of photography in which the purpose is to explore the human body."
"What you take pictures of me? That's worth $250.00?"
"Yes, but in order to earn the 250 the subject, you, would have to be in various stages of undress."
"Undress? You mean naked?" He shook his head and reached for the door handle again.
"That's right. It's up to you, Pete. 250 for being nude. And the bonuses... but if it isn't your thing, I understand. Sorry to have bothered you."
As the door opened, I started the engine. But, as I expected, Pete did not jump out but turned back, only one foot out the door. "These pictures don't end up on the internet do they? On some fag site?"
I ignored the slur. "The pictures are strictly for my own use, and perhaps a few select friends. Other than that no-one will ever see them."
He pulled his foot back into the truck but didn't close the door. "How... how can I be sure?"
"Well, Pete, it boils down to trust. If you think you can trust me, then go for it; if not I'll find someone else. I will promise I will not make you do anything you don't agree to do beforehand."
"Oh shit. ... I really need the money. I got out of bed late and ... Oh shit, I don't know."
I sat in silence. Pete continued to dither speaking more to himself than to me.
Finally, I said, "Ok, you are in or you're out. I'm not waiting all day."
He looked at me as if assessing my trustworthiness, "I'm in. Oh, shit." He closed the door and put on the seatbelt.
"Great. Let's go." I put the pickup in gear and drove off before he could talk himself out of it.
I keep a small apartment for this purpose a short distance from the Corner and we arrived quickly. I led the way in, Pete dragging behind still not 100% convinced he had made the correct decision.
Although not is a great building, the apartment is scrupulously clean and the living room appointed like any photography studio -- lighting, props, cameras, et cetera. The business-like atmosphere tends to put guys at ease. They realize I am what I say I am -- a photographer -- well, as far as they are concerned.
I offered Pete a beverage. He chose beer. We sat and talked for about 15 minutes so he didn't feel rushed or pressured. I found out a good deal about Pete, his wife, their children (he's hoping for another boy but really doesn't care), the wrench of the move away from his family, and a lot of other stuff I really wasn't interest in.
"Ok, Pete, tempus fugit," he looked confused, "time flies," I explained. "Shall we get to work?"
"Ok," he said reluctantly, and he actually started to pull his t-shirt off.
I stopped him. "Not so fast, cowboy. Some paper work first."
"What?"
"This is legit, Pete, and as the model you have to be protected to some degree." I pulled out the standard model release forms I used. They didn't really mean much because I'm not a professional photographer interested in selling my pictures but the forms made the guys more comfortable. I spent a few minutes explaining and Pete signed where I indicated. We had to sit close together and I savoured his manly, unwashed smell as we did so.
"Ok, now to work. I want to start with some shots of you dressed as you are and we'll move on from there."
I set him up against the background and began shooting. He followed direction badly; fortunately for me as that allowed me to touch him to get him into the positions I wanted, or at least, said I wanted so I could touch him.
"Start to take off your shirt," I instructed, "Slowly, lift from the bottom, show me some of your stomach." He revealed his abdomen. As I suspected his was not a gym-toned body. He had a bit of a beer-belly starting and some definite love handles but, overall, not bad.
We progressed slowly. It was ,after all, foreplay for me. Finally, his shirt was off. His upper torso showed that he had been really fit at some stage but had been on a downhill skid fitness-wise. But he was still hot in my eyes.
I made a point of photographing the various tattoos on his arms and upper chest. This allowed me to play with his pecs, arms, armpits and even his nipples as one tattoo was stretched atop his left nipple. 'Jennifer' it said. His wife, apparently.
We had been at it for almost 45 minutes when I instructed him to loosen his belt. His previous reluctance returned. "Look, if you are just going to waste my time..."
"No, no, I'll do it." And he did.
After the belt, the top button on his jeans. Then the zipper inch by inch. I had him splay open his fly. It revealed he was wearing white jockeys which could have been cleaner. Bonus.
He was hesitant to lower his jeans when asked but that meant he did it slowly which was great for the photo shoot and a turn on for me.
He had to sit to take off his work boots which allowed for some nice shots of his crotch in those dirty jockeys. Pete actually blushed when he stood and his dirty jockeys were on full view. Nothing like a macho man who blushes.
I allowed him to light a cigarette to put him more at ease. "Pull the back of your underwear down a bit. Good. Good. And, now pull them down below your ass."
The promised land, I thought. "This isn't right." I told him.
"Whatcha mean?" he thought he was losing out on the money.
"A dude like you should be wearing a jock strap." I pulled one from my prop cabinet. I judged it to be at least two sizes too small. "Put this on."
He shyly turned his back to me and exchanged jockeys for jock strap. "Too tight," he commented.
