I Take Money for Sex

The guy I went to stay with in San Francisco advertised himself as "Richard of San Francisco." He'd been running a callboy service for at least 20 years.

I hadn't gone out there to be part of his stable. But he did talk me into going out on a couple of calls.

Future entries will show that prostitution has never fretted me. I'm at root a pretty reserved person. I had plenty of offers I only said "no thanks."

But these were regular customers and I was broke. (NB: this was before AIDS.)

The first man Richard of SF chivvied me into meeting had Cal Culver (aka Casey Donovan) as his regular trick. Culver, a well known porno star: the handsome, smooth, blonde boy-next-door type. I was attractive enough back then. My afro, mustache and hairy body I put me at the other end of the spectrum.

The guy was gracious about it. All I did was sit in a chair nude and chat with him for awhile. He was civil, educated, likeable. I half wished I was what he wanted but really was relieved I wasn't. I got my money and split untouched.

Number two wasn't nearly so nice. Fat and drunk, wanting lots of attention. Tongue kissing, extensive touching are all I remember of my hour in a tacky hotel room with the TV blaring. Thankfully, no sex.

The experience didn't leave me weirded out, upset or angry. But it was so unattractive. I didn't want my erotic life contaminated. I'd always been a sexual romantic and was becoming more so. After a few years out the pleasures of uncomplicated hedonism were dimming. Not the healthiest mindset but too embedded in nature to fight.

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