—You going to see anyone this week?

  —Gang of Four. You should download their album Entertainment! From BitTorrent or something. They’re really important.

  —When were they important?

  —The late ’70s and early ’80s.

  —I usually like the bands that sound like the important bands.

  —Well, that’s the thing. Every band is derivative of Gang of Four these days. Michael Stipe and Bono stole every messianic lead singer move in the book from Jon King. Flea learned to play bass listening to Gang of Four. Andy Gill’s angular guitar? Forget it!

  —What’s angular guitar?

  —Download Gang of Four, on either BitTorrent or Acquisition.

  —What’s Acquisition?

  —It’s like LimeWire but it’s a more graceful application.

  —I’ll give it a shot, but are they like Television?

  —What do you mean?

  —Does every band in the world claim to have been influenced by them?

  —Yes, they’re just like Television.

  —Okay, I better let you go.

  —Okay.

  —Have fun.

  Lobby, Crowne Plaza Hotel

  People smile. A fat man with two cell phones on his hip leers at Andy in front of the elevator. What would it be like to go to a hotel lobby with no appointments and just see what happens? Andy has too much Scottish blood for that. He’s too practical. Time is money is money is time.

  Room 813

  A soft knock. Andy always wants to knock with a car key, just to scare someone, the way maids do it in cheap motels. Click click click. Housekeeping!

  —Hey guy.

  They kiss. Andy sets down the bags: a black duffle bag full of sex toys. He sees four hundred-dollar bills fanned out on the desk. It’s the first thing he looks for. Stephen wants adventure this time. Usually he spanks and fucks Andy, but this time he’s flopping. Andy sits down on the couch. It’s a suite, not just a room. Stephen must be there for a conference. He only says meetings.

  [Businesspeople either are too ashamed of the boredom they endure to fully reveal what they’re doing all day, or they can’t conceive of any escort’s having been to a conference.] Stephen calls it a “leadership seminar,” which translates to an excuse for men to drink together in hotel lobbies that could be anywhere. Cleveland, Phoenix, Atlanta. The carpet is the same toasted almond medium pile no matter where you go. These guys are at an airport hotel for three days and they will only go into the city once for dinner. That is really the end of the line.

  Couch

  Andy pulls Stephen’s fat ass over his knees so Stephen is lying across his lap. He spanks him through his shorts. Andy usually warms up a person’s ass so the spanking will be mystical. When Andy first moved to San Francisco, he saw a daddy on a regular basis who lit dozens of candles and spanked him with dazzling mastery. There was an entire ritual to their evenings together. For hours, the daddy would gradually warm up Andy’s butt and give him a case of “hungry butt.” The slightest touch felt like an emergency room cardiac jump start. Andy would be squirming.

  [You must learn the difference between play and work. Both realms must be distinct and exquisite. Find a man who hates overhead lights and takes his time.] It was the closest Andy ever came to being Catholic. Going to this man’s house was like going to Mass. This is where Andy learned to spank. This daddy was the Obi-Wan Kenobi of spanking. The next day, Andy would cry from yearning— that awful dilemma boys have when they’re handled well.

  [You’ll know it when you feel it.] All weekend, Andy had been soaking in hot water with hippies and doing yoga twice a day. Despite these pacifying measures, Andy wants to skip the warm-up and really hurt Stephen.

  —Get on the floor.

  —Yessir.

  —Take off my shoes.

  —Yessir.

  INSERT FACE SLAP

  —No marks….

  —Okay.

  INSERT FACE SLAP—LIKE, TEN OF THEM

  —Now my jeans…socks…briefs. Just sniff it. Don’t touch it. Close your mouth. Sniff it.

  Andy lets a few drops of piss shake onto Stephen’s black shirt. He wonders if this is his only casual shirt. Will this be traumatic for Stephen? They’ve never done this. Andy does it anyway. Some of the piss falls onto the carpet and the couch.

  [Be mindful of where you sit in hotel rooms. Cleaning is cursory at best.]

  Bathroom —

  —Lie in the tub. Open your mouth.

  —Not in my eyes.

  —Shut up.

  —Careful.

  —Here.

  INSERT TOWEL DRYING FACE

  —Never done that with you. I’ve thought about it.

  —How are you doing?

  —Good. That was hot.

  —If we go anywhere you don’t feel comfortable, just say so. Even when we’re playing with dominance, you should be able to stop it if you need to.

  —Okay.

  —Take a shower and come back to the bedroom.

  Bedroom

  Andy tells Stephen to lie on the bed face down. The window faces the freeway, eight floors up, so no one can see in. It’s a sheer white curtain at 6:30 p.m., so there’s plenty of light out. Andy has never tied Stephen up. He chewed half a Viagra so it would work faster, and that shit makes him aggressive.

  [If you chew Viagra (and sometimes you must), then chase it with something strong like cranberry juice.]

  Andy takes out two fifty-foot lengths of rope from his bag, then attaches polyester fur-lined leather cuffs to Stephen’s wrists and ankles.

  [Not all hotel beds are good for bondage. Many have solid wood bed frames. What you want is a cheaper bed with four wrappable legs.]

  Andy runs the rope through the metal hook in each of the cuffs, then uses a slipknot to secure each of Stephen’s appendages flat to the bed. He craves no movement.

  [If there’s a knot that doesn’t work, it’s better to untie it and start over. Otherwise there’ll be a mess afterward and it’ll take forever to clean up. You want to leave quickly so you’ll be invited back.]

  [Don’t do psychedelics when you’re playing with bondage. All it takes is one experience seeing snakes and spiders, and the concept of rope will never be the same for you.]

  The first toy Andy uses is a ten-inch rubber line of beads. Kind of like a stack of chocolate eggs, increasing in circumference. He pushes it in Stephen’s butthole, then pulls it out. He spanks Stephen’s ass with a black leather paddle until Andy sees the beginnings of a blister. (No marks, Andy, Stephen says.) Andy starts to feel the aggro of the Viagra. Viaggro is what they should call it. He puts a rubber ball in Stephen’s mouth and pulls the straps tight so Stephen doesn’t make too much noise. He pushes the balls all the way in—slowly, because he knew the toy’s curving into Stephen’s colon. When he pulls it out, there’s shit covering the first four balls. Stephen cleaned himself out, but probably with a single squirt of a Fleet enema. That’s not enough to get this far up. Andy takes the toy to the bathroom and washes it off, then leaves it in the sink.

  [Teach your repeat clients to wash themselves with a Fleet enema bottle. This is also helpful for straight guys who want to get their prostates touched: Empty out the saline solution in the Fleet bottle, fill it with warm water, then squirt it up there and sit on the toilet. You don’t really gain anything by holding the water. Remove the nozzle, then blow air into the bottle as if you’re playing a trumpet. Fill and reuse. If you wash your nozzle, you can reuse your Fleet. Each client’s bottle should be tossed after each use. They’re recyclable, by the way.]

  Andy comes back from the bathroom and sees Stephen’s ass—how it’s bright red and has a few white patches where it would be really tender later. Stephen would think of this when he was in his leadership meetings. Stephen hadn’t requested this much domination. He had spanked Andy a bunch of times early on in the dot-com years when Andy started working. At one point in late 2002, Andy decided he needed to take care of himself and not let Stephen spank him because Stephen didn’t understand pacing and warm-up.

  [You don’t just hit someone. Spank them lightly through their jeans, then lightly through their underwear. Finally, approach their bare ass gingerly and take cues, unless you want to hurt them, which is also valid.]

  Stephen has a really fat cockhead and never waits long enough before pushing it into Andy’s ass. There’s never enough time to prepare. This doesn’t bother Andy as much as the spanking. It’s not like it triggers childhood memories of abuse. There was no childhood abuse to prepare him for this. That’s the point. He wasn’t trained as a child for any of this careless touch.

  Andy notices that Stephen has spit out the ball gag.

  —It’s hurting my jaw.

  —Okay, then let’s take it out. We don’t want that.

  Andy puts on a condom and lubes up. He knows it’s going to be a dirty fuck because of the toy. He puts some Wet Platinum in the tip of the condom because he wants to enjoy this. [Nobody should buy Eros. It’s German and expensive.] Andy keeps it in a Nalgene bottle that he got in a variety pack of empty plastic bottles at REI, the camping superstore. This is the capitalist product placement portion of the story. Even anarcho hookers can’t escape capitalism. The fanned hundred- dollar bills, the fanned hundred-dollar bills.

  INSERT INSERTION

  —Wait, wait. That hurt.

  Andy pulls out and lets Stephen settle. Pushes in again. Slow.

  —Fuck me, guy.

  Andy does this. Andy was never very interested in dirty talk. He likes hearing it but doesn’t like doing it. He’d tried reading Carol Queen’s book Exhibitionism for the Shy and even read the appendix on “talking hot” or whatever it’s called, thinking maybe it was an issue of available vocabulary. Still, it wasn’t happening. Andy shifts to fuck Stephen sideways. He moves to navigate Stephen’s big ass. Ten minutes of fucking is all Stephen can take. Andy keeps going.

  —I’m worn out.

  —I don’t care.

  —I need to stop now.

  —I want you to beg me to stop. I want it to hurt.

  —Please stop, sir.

  Andy thinks of the time he was dating a guy who had a boyfriend and several regular play buddies. It was early in his San Francisco years—1999. They were exotic to each other. The man was trying to negotiate a consensual nonconsensual whipping scene with Pat Califia. This was before Pat became Patrick. That’s a big thing to ask of someone: to keep going, once there’s blood and genuine resistance, to push past a real live “No.”

  —I’m not done fucking you.

  —Please, sir. It hurts.

  —Good.

  There was no safeword. Andy thinks of the joke about Jesus: Crucifixion is what happens when you don’t have a safeword.

  —Please.

  I want it to hurt tomorrow. You’re gonna think about this.

  —I can’t take any more.

  —This is the part you’ll jerk off to later.

  Andy pulls a pillow out from underneath the comforter.

  —Bite on this.

  Stephen daintily closes his teeth on the edge of the pillowcase. Andy stuffs a mouthful of the pillow into Stephen’s teeth and keeps fucking. Stephen struggles in earnest. It’s a good thing he’s so well tied. It’s a good thing Andy had gone to all those knot-tying seminars. This is where Stephen had miscalculated. Andy had been to plenty of conferences and meetings and even leadership seminars. He knows all the language.

  —I’m gonna fuck you as long as I want. I could really hurt you right now.

  Andy almost says, “I could just leave you tied up like this and go home,” but stops himself. That might be the end of everything between them. As it is, Stephen might be too freaked out to ever let Andy tie him up again. Andy pulls out, sees the shit caked on his dick, and pushes it back in. He spanks Stephen’s ass as he fucks him, so the white patches rise again between the mounds of bright pink.

  —I’m gonna fuck you up.

  —Please stop. I mean it.

  —No.

  [If you can’t sleep, especially with an overnight client, keep melatonin and Ambien in your bathroom kit. This is occupational health and safety.]

  Later that night, Andy will have a dream about screaming no means no at his mother, because she was asking an Army general, “When’s he coming home?”

  Ten more minutes. It’s 7:46 p.m.—almost time to leave. There is time to shower and gather toys.

  [Often, clients don’t figure the shower as part of your time together. Play this by ear. If he’s at your house, stop ten minutes before the hour’s up. If he wants to lie there for a bit and shower, you could end up going fifteen minutes into the next hour. You’ll know which clients do this. Adjust your timing accordingly. You’ll be able to spot these guys because they’ll talk to you as they put their socks on and it will take forever.]

  INSERT EVACUATION

  Andy goes to the bathroom to get a wad of toilet paper. He wipes the shit and faint traces of pink blood from Stephen’s ass. He unties all the ropes, then climbs on the bed and holds Stephen to his chest. Three minutes. Andy thinks maybe Stephen will fuck him quickly and squirt his load. That’s always how it went. Maybe Stephen will just want him to leave. Andy doesn’t know. Stephen abruptly stands up at the end of the bed, then goes to the bathroom to look for a condom.

  —I’ve got them right here.

  —You want Daddy to fuck your ass?

  Stephen is saving face. He pushes in hard, as usual. Andy cleaned out twice and lubed up well in preparation for that. Behavior change takes a long time.

  —Yeah, fucking your ass, boy.

  Andy squeezes his ass muscles together and Stephen shudders. It doesn’t take long at all.

  7:52. Digital clocks have bright red numbers. Andy strokes up his load and shoots all over the hotel comforter.

  [Word to the wise: They only wash hotel comforters every few weeks or so, if ever. It’s a mystery.]

  By the time Stephen gets back from his shower, Andy has packed his bags. Stephen asks him some questions about what he’s been doing with himself and Andy sort of answers, but it’s obvious that he’s on his way out. Andy flushes the condoms and takes a shower. He wonders about the environmental impact of that sort of thing. What could he do instead? What do permaculturists do with used condoms?

  —Did you get your money?

  —Yes, thank you.

  —I’ll call you when I’m coming back to town.

  —Okay. Take care.

  Andy is able to use his cell phone in the elevator. That’s not always the case.

  Hooker phone: Andy’s mother

  —Hey Mom, it’s me.

  —I can tell.

  —How are you?

  —I mailed those packages, all your empty CD cases. Angela told me to send them Media Mail.

  —Oh, great. How much did it cost?

  —Six dollars for one, eight dollars for the other one.

  —That’s so cheap. I’m relieved.

  —There are still three other boxes. I’m looking for the right boxes. I had to tell the post office they weren’t empty, that there were CDs in them. So I could get the cheap rate.

  —Good for you for lying. Lying saves money.

  —You should get them in a few days.

  Parking lot

  —We had a great weekend sitting in hot water.

  —Oh, good. Was it a retreat type place?

  —Yes, kind of a hippie spa.

  —Good. Do you feel relaxed? —I do, yes.

  Car

  —What was that sound?

  —Oh, I just undid the car alarm.

  —You’re driving?

  —I’m getting in the car.

  —I don’t want you to have a wreck.

  —I won’t.

  —Call your aunt. She’s just out of surgery.

  —Okay, I will.

  Andy gathers the parking ticket in the car caddy and three dollars from the ashtray. They always make you pay for the third hour even if you’re only a few minutes into it. When he drives up to the gate, the orange and white bars are already lifted. Parking is free tonight. Andy puts the money back in the ashtray and rolls gently over the speed bumps on his way out of the parking lot. Three dollars. What a relief.

  THEY CAN’T STOP US

  Tim Doody

  I’m waiting for the sun to set, for my shift to end, so I can pedal into my favorite part of Manhattan, an emerald oasis right in the center of all the concrete canyons. But I’m so not there yet. On Broadway, I steer my road bike between columns of men (and some women) doing the black-suit-shuffle, cut west to pick up my thirty-fourth package of the day at the World Financial Center, turn east to drop off at 120 Wall Street, and then north to an alley in Chinatown where I climb the stairs to the second floor and hand over a manila envelope to a man who kneads his hands behind a counter. As I wait for his signature, I inhale the incense from a candle-lit Buddhist shrine. Behind him, several rows of women move fabric through the stabbing needles of sewing machines.

  I plummet back down the stairs, skipping over every other step, and ponder the sheer number of daily encounters in this city, their anonymity and intimacy, how cultures clash, cavort, merge. Then I’m back in the streets jostling with vendors and taxis and tourists, everybody staking out a claim to space. Sirens scream. New sweat drips down the old sweat that’s caked to my face from the last seven hours of exertion and summer heat.

  Sometimes, I hate that I get CEOs what they need, when they need it, in death-defying time, for semiadequate wages. Maybe that’s why I scream a war cry as I near a crosswalk filled with commuters moving against the light. My voice and my barreling bike part the commuters so fast that one guy’s knees jerk up high enough to almost touch the tip of his nose. It takes me ten minutes to stop laughing.

  Once I get through Midtown, weaving between cars that stop and go and shift lanes, I drop off my last parcels, radio in to say see you tomorrow. I turn my bike from the four lanes of 59th Street into Central Park, where the noise of the city subsides to a hum. A dozen blocks later, on a footpath, I unhitch the Kryptonite chain from my waist and wrap it around the bike frame and a bench. Finally.

 

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