Fic: Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy Entry 1-20/150 (Entourage, NC-17, Vince/E, Vince/Others)
Title: Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy
Entries: 1-20 of 150
Status: Complete
Fandom: Entourage
Word Count: ~6,600 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.
Pairing: Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)
Rating: NC-17 for lots and lots of sex
Warnings: AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, adultery, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!
Betas and helpers: guest_age, justabi, allyndra, ariadne83, pesha and deepad were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.
Authors Notes: This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the entourage_fest.
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.
Entry 1
Journaling was never really my thing. But what the hell? My friend Turtle says my life's pretty interesting, but that he could live without the details, so I might as well put them somewhere.
So, here goes. This is number one.
~*~*~
Entry 2
I realize that I forgot to mention before that I fuck people for money. I like it. And more importantly, I'm good at it.
There're plenty of cons, sure, but I get paid a lot, have a disgustingly awesome amount of free time during the day to bum around L.A., and just generally be a lazy son of a bitch.
It works for me. Didn't in the beginning, back in New York when I was just another waste of space pretty boy from a shit neighborhood. But out here on the West Coast, it's good. I've got an agency that takes care of bookings for me and all I have to do is show up and put out.
It's fucking beautiful, baby, and I live very fucking well.
~*~*~
Entry 3
Sometimes, I really fucking hate not having a car. Or being able to drive. Waiting for a ride is a waste of time, but I just don't get on well with cars. Not driving them anyway.
Turtle's another story. He got started in L.A. working on cars for his girlfriend, Kelly's, dad. He's kind of a management/networking guy now for Rufus' company. He's good, too.
But I don't like asking Turtle to drive me places. Especially not for work-related trips. Going to the sex shop to buy girly mags is one thing. It's another thing to drag him to one to watch me buy new butt plugs, a replacement chain for my nipple clamps, and an economy sized bottle of water-based lube.
He doesn't need to see that. He doesn't deserve it.
Still. I hate waiting for the fucking cab to show up. Traffic in L.A. sucks balls.
~*~*~
Entry 4
I have this regular, Scott.
Ari, my agent, hooked me up with the guy when I first got started. He's in his sixties and he's a good guy. I like him. No, really. I do. It took us a little time to warm up to each other and now the working relationship is one of my best. He's one of my longest-standing clients and I've worked hard to keep him, really hard. Usually, he doesn't like to keep a boy around after he stops looking like jailbait, and I'm this close to thirty so yes, my ass is just that good, thanks for asking.
Of course, I'm not a live-in so that helps. I was for awhile though, back in 90's before I started making real money with the agency. It was nice, actually. Great pool, huge TV, DVD player back before everyone had one. And if you could get past the old thing, he was actually a fairly good fuck.
The Daddy thing is kinda weird though. To be honest, after all this time I still find it weird, but it doesn't set of my creep alarm anymore. It's just a kink. Everyone has them. Mine just happens to involve getting tied up and used like a blowup doll. His is more Oedipal, or whatever the male version of wanting to fuck your son is.
He had to get high as hell to break that to me the first time. From what I can remember (not much, I was high, too), he was shy, awkward, and ashamed about the whole thing. He told me about his father the diplomat and there was this whole incident involving a guard in Red Square, but I didn't really follow it. I don't need to. He likes it when I act like a little boy and call him Daddy, so I do. I'd rather he get that with me than with…well, there are places he could go for that, boys he could pay, and I'm glad I'm not them.
He calls me a couple times a month, when his live-in-du-jour won't give him what he needs how he needs it, he wants a threesome, or is just craving someone he's familiar with, and he sends a car. He pays in cash and he kisses both my cheeks, then my lips when he sees me.
But if he's cruising for a group thing or he wants to watch me fuck his boy (I know, I can't believe I get paid for that either), I always check if the guy's legal before we start. So far, none of them have been under 18, but I still like to be sure. I get weekly mani-pedis as part of my work prep and nothing fucks up freshly buffed nails like a day or two in jail.
~*~*~
Entry 5
Women are difficult. I love them-the way the feel, taste, and smell and how they're so fucking different. But they're difficult. Because women like to take me out and show me off. Particularly the ones in and around the business.
In award season, the big money is in women. Sad women. Lonely women. Women who are trying to impress their friends whose husbands still fuck them by bringing a man who's beautiful, strong, and fifteen to forty years younger than she is. They're almost all repeats or are referred by friends and frenemies in similar situations.
But award season ends by March and the rest of the year, the money's in dick. Mine. His. It doesn't really matter. Men pay for sex-,always have, always will-,and in this town, they'll pay twice as much for dick as for pussy.
No. That's not true. Men don't pay twice as much for dick. They pay twice as much for dick to keep its fucking mouth shut and suck, there's a good little boy. Just like that. Yeah, bitch, suck it harder. You like that, you filthy little cocksucker?
Most of the time the answer is no, not really. But I nod, and smile then I turn on the big ole, "Yes baby, I love it," eyes and suck.
I'm good at that one. Mrs. Ari says it's all about my mouth.
"You have a beautiful mouth, Vince, just beautiful," she says most times she sees me. And she caresses it like my mouth is some sort of pet, like one of those rat dogs that fit in your purse. She looks like the kind of big name actress who could have one tucked under her arm as she comes off a film shoot. Only nowadays her look is much more like a Meryl Streep picture than what she used to act in, which was all of the Glory Hole Girl films, one through sixteen.
Ari says it's pure talent, which is somehow worse.
But pure talent doesn't extend to what's required for the award show women. I blow a decent chunk of my commission renting the clothes. If you're going to walk the red carpet, your shirt can't have come from the annual warehouse sale at Barney's. Not when the woman on your arm is wearing 1.8 million dollars in diamonds.
They tend to like me to fuck them in public. Dresses on, stockings around their ankles if they're wearing any at all. Their high heels dig into my ass and they pant, beg, pull on my hair and my suit jacket, and occasionally they rip things, and then I'm out anywhere from five hundred to three grand on something I can't return.
If it weren't for the volume, it wouldn't be worth it. But it definitely keeps me busy one month out of the year. But by March I'm exhausted. Is it summer yet?
~*~*~
Entry 6
My dad died two years ago today.
Johnny picks me up around 2 and gets me shit-faced. Neither of us talk about the time with the stairs. And he doesn't talk the time when I was thirteen and the old man threw me into a chest of drawers and my cracked my skull so hard I was in the hospital for a week. Johnny had to pay for the hospital visit out of the money he made dealing weed because none of us had insurance, but we don't talk about it either.
He doesn't mention how right after I turned sixteen, the old man decided I was a sissy faggot and that I needed it beat out of me. Funny, since that was months before I sucked my first cock or got fucked for the first time. Johnny'd already gone to L.A. by then and there wasn't anything he could do for me.
I don't think about how I spent a two weeks sleeping in the subway tunnels and eating half-eaten burgers out of the trashcans of restaurants before I'd made enough turning ten dollar tricks to get a room. And then I was sharing an apartment with two heroin addicts a year or two older than me who scared the fuck out of me. They had dead eyes and one of them had herpes in his mouth. They worked the same block as I did. Turtle and Johnny are the only reason I'm not still there.
We drink. And then we drink more. And then we drink even more.
I wake up the next morning on Johnny's couch only to throw up in his sink.
~*~*~
Entry 7
Pineapple lube is disgusting. Just putting that out there. Who the fuck comes up with this crap?
~*~*~
Entry 8
The thing I've noticed about female clients-no, fuck that, just clients in general-is that the ones who pay me the most, a lot of them are after the intimacy as much as the orgasm. It's hard to get and people fucking need it.
The big money comes from one place-desperation. The more someone wants something-,the harder it is for them to get it-,the more they're willing to pay for it. It's why Scott pays me a grand a go to fuck me in knee-high socks like a prep-school boy while I beg for more daddy-cock, it's why Babs pays me to tie her up and force-fuck her, and it's why married men shell out three hundred an hour to eat my ass then have me fuck them into the floor. It's also why Shauna pays me to spend three days with her just holding her and being there after awards season ends and why Bob pays me to sleep through the night with him, wrapped around his arthritic body like a shield.
Desperation's gold, Ari says. He's not wrong. But my client tonight is publicly out, rich, powerful, a name that people know, and he's not bad looking either. I think he's just going for convenient. No desperation involved. And that's a relief. Sometimes it's nice to just get paid and get laid.
~*~*~
Entry 9
I love sex. No, really. I like the work I do, but work aside, I fucking love fucking and being fucked-depending on my mood and my recent client history.
Why's it matter now? Last night my client used a vibrator on me. Several. Apparently, she got off on watching guys use toys. She didn't let me fuck her, just rode out the evening with a vibrating egg inside herself while she pushed the buzzing toys in and out until she'd come enough times and our two hours were up.
And it was fun. I actually came, which I don't always do with clients, but it was a huge fucking tease and today I'm horny as fuck and practically gagging for it. I blame the client. Really. I do. Jerk.
I don't have any bookings tonight, though so I have to go out and get tail like a normal person. Getting laid on my own isn't hard, of course. West Hollywood's crawling with bars and I'm good looking enough that I don't have to try.
"Pretty," E'd called it back when we were kids before his dad died and his mom dragged him off to Boston. When we were kids he’d said I was too pretty for sports and to go try drama. And I did. When we were younger, I was in the habit of doing what E said.
People want me, they always have. Sometimes the convenience of having someone else book your fuck for you is nice. But sometimes? It's all about the hunt-whether I'm being hunted or doing the hunting.
I pull a tall, mountain of a blond who doesn't mince words because he's hacked the game. We're in this for the same thing and I can see it in his eyes the first time I look at him. Fucking is as much of a sport for him as it can be a job for me, and he plays to win.
He fucks me over the back of the couch in his apartment-hard, deep, and efficient. Professionally, I actually admire his skills. Personally, his dick curves enough that it hits my prostate every time he slams in, and I see stars behind my eyes. He pulls my hair and he bites my neck, and I come mostly from the inside out, although he's got calloused hands that stroke my dick and sends me over the falls in a fucking barrel. The crash is as good as the fall.
I give him my number because a fuck that good is worth revisiting. But I don't expect to hear from him anytime soon. He's not that kind and neither am I.
~*~*~
Entry 10
Someone's car alarm is going off outside.
Don't they have any fucking decency? Its 1 PM and some of us are trying to sleep.
~*~*~
Entry 11
I came out to L.A. to be an actor. Johnny set me up on his couch and I killed myself trying. I had a GED and a pretty face and hunger to be something more than I was turning into back home-living out the lyrics to that song by Dee Dee Ramone, you know the one. Dom called it the "whore" song, long U sound like in lube.
I didn't trick when I first got to L.A.. I washed dishes and I temped, but I didn't sell it because I was going to make it. I was going to do it right. So I didn't trick.
Not until Freddy.
British, a good fifteen years older, and good looking in a sharp, angular sort of way. He was my first L.A. job-the one who set the ball rolling. He noticed me while I was busing tables at one of the nicer restaurants I'd ever worked at, tipped me a twenty even though bus boys didn't get tips, and left me his phone number written across Jackson's face.
I was 19, I was broke, and I hadn't been laid well since I got to L.A. So I called him and we met at his loft. There was Scotch that was older than me and sex on 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. He sucked my brain out through my dick and then fucked me so hard it nearly broke his headboard. It was cleansing and I felt better about the whole L.A. thing by the time we fucked for the third time, in his shower with my face against the tile, slipping and sliding as he pounded me into the wall.
"How much do I owe you, Sunshine?" he asked as he watched me pull my clothes back on.
I stopped with my shirt half unbuttoned. "What?"
"For tonight," he said, digging into his wallet. "Will four hundred about do it?"
"For the sex?"
"Of course. You're a beautiful boy, Vince. I don't expect someone like you to come cheap. Top of the line you are, gorgeous."
"Five"," I said, shocking myself. But I hadn't been able to pay my share of the rent since I got out to L.A. and I needed it. Wouldn't hurt just this once. And maybe it was the amount, maybe it was the way he looked at me, maybe it was how good the sex was, but it felt different than the tricks I turned back in New York. Powerful. What I did back on the East Coast was desperate so I' could afford somewhere to sleep and a way out.
This wasn't like that. This felt like a reward. Like…if I let myself, it maybe could be something I could be proud of. Like a real job.
He crossed the room with a handful of folded bills. He pushed them into the back pocket of my jeans and kissed me. "Worth every penny," he said against my mouth. "We'll have to do this again sometime, yeah?"
"Yeah."
Freddy was the one who gave me the number for the Gold Standard. It was Freddy who recommended me to Shauna to spread my name around the female client base like wildfire. And it was Freddy who dragged me to Fred Segal and Barney's and D&G and Armani.
"Gotta look the part, don't you, Sunshine. Besides-" He stood behind me in the dressing room, lips on my throat. I looked at the picture we made in the mirror. We could've been. We could've been any of those upper-crust WeHo queer couples. The shoes he bought me were worth more than the mortgage monthly mortgage payment on my mom's house. "I put people and things together to make them more beautiful. And you should look as good as possible with your clothes on before you take them off. "
Most of that stuff is still in my closet. Half of it is too nice to wear to work. The other half is old enough that it doesn't really matter because it doesn't look as expensive as it really was.
I told Johnny it was an acting job when I moved out a week later and in with Scott. He asked where, and with what company, and I was vague and by the first year, when nothing came out and I had all this free fucking time, I think that's when he figured it out.
I told Turtle, though. He'd known about New York and he wasn't happy about me doing it again here, but he didn't fight me.
"You gonna be safe this time?"
"I was safe last time."
"The fuck you were," Turtle snapped. He'd had to lie to Dom about why I needed a ride to the E.R. Broke ribs. That whole thing was a mistake.
"I am, Turtle, Jesus. That's the whole point of going through an agency. This isn't me standing on Sunset turning tricks. It's legit. "
He looked at me like he knew there was an answer in my face, somewhere. To what question, I don't know. But he's my only real friend in L.A., I mean, Jesus, he took the money I made in the city and turned it into enough for us to come out here in the first place, and 'it's nice to have someone I can talk to. He can look at me however the fuck he wants.
~*~*~
Entry 12
"I've got a job for you, Chase. Be at the Beverly Wilshire in one hour. He's in room 207."
I scribble the number then do the math. "I can't get a cab over there and be ready in time. It's rush hour, Ari."
"Then I suggest you run."
He's good at his job and, in his own way, he cares. I know this, but ugh.
Days like this just…fucking Ari.
~*~*~
Entry 13
The client wants me to come on him. He wants to watch me jerk off and come on him. Fairly simple, right? Wrong. Where does he want me to come? Does he want me to eat it? Does he want me to reciprocate? The very fact that he wants me to come changes whether or not I'm going to use Viagra to get it up.
The more I know about the job the better.
For something like this, I use something besides pharmaceuticals. Viagra makes it so you can't come and the clients don't like you to whip out the porn (unless they do first), so I dig in my brain for something that will take me there besides the fact that he's fifty pounds overweight and twenty years older than me.
I think about Freddy's whole tongue inside me, flexing and twisting. It's good but it's not good enough so I reach for an old fantasy, one that is guaranteed to bring me off.
I think about E, back in Queens, covered in freckles with sad eyes. We're in his basement after his dad's funeral, there are still people milling around upstairs moving chairs and bringing food, and he's just told me that his mom's moving. That he's leaving me. And instead of just shrugging, like I did that day, I lean forward and kiss him. He tastes like the cigarettes he stole from his parents' room (his dad's brand), the lasagna Mrs. Carmino brought to the wake, and salt. In my head, he grabs my hair with one hand and works on the fly of my jeans with the other. I lick my way into his mouth and eventually get both our pants off. Or hands tangle together as we thrust and buck between our fingers. He's breathing in short pants from between my lips and it's awkward, clumsy, and pure. E cries out when comes, his hand letting go of my hair so that his arm can snake around my neck and pull me close. I come a few seconds after, in my head and in reality, and spray the skin in front of me with thick spurts.
"I'll be back, Vince," the E in my head promises as I shake myself out of it and come back down to earth.
Reality is ugly. I haven't seen E in fifteen years and my client is scooping my come off his skin with his fingers and sucking them into his mouth, groaning. He rubs the rest of it into his stomach and chest like it's lotion while he brings himself off. I offer to help-to blow him, to jerk him, to ride him, but he just shakes his head.
It's a pretty short booking, but whatever he wants. It's his dime.
~*~*~
Entry 14
I pick up a girl at a bar I go to with Turtle and Johnny. She's got short red hair and she's short, and she reminds me of my friend, E, which is kind of weird and kind of not. If E hadn't gone to Boston-
He did, and that's fine. It's not like he wanted his dad to die. And I get why his mom needed go to her parents. I do. I get all of that, and I'm fine with all of that.
The problem is that we were kids and almost fifteen years later, I shouldn't still care. But I do.
It is what it is. Whatever.
Her name's Maureen. She's got small breasts and these short little unpainted fingernails that she digs with when she comes. She tries not to, but she tears at my shoulders when she comes against my tongue, and she makes this low sound in the back of her throat. It's better than that porn star shit because it's real. She's really coming and she's saying my real name, and I really like her.
Not enough to date or anything. The job gets in the way of dating, and women, especially, aren't down with me fucking other people, particularly men, for money. But I like her.
She rides me and she whimpers, and I push her hair back from her round face. She smiles at me and laughs a little when I thrust up into her. She's soft, wet, warm, and pliant, but strong. She arches her back and her hair falls down over her spine. It thrusts her breasts out and I have to reach up and feel them. Her nipples are hard under my thumbs but the curve her breast is so soft. I'm reminded why women are so fucking amazing.
She leaves her email address on my kitchen table when she leaves. I add it to my address book before the bed gets cold.
~*~*~
Entry 15
I'm submissive by nature. Always have been. When I was a kid, I just figured that E had all the good ideas and that was why I trusted him so implicitly, but when I was fifteen I had a girlfriend who tied me up and blindfolded me, and well…
It's gotten me into a fuck-ton of trouble in my time. Let's just leave it there for now.
It comes up at work though. Mrs. Ari worked as a Domintarix when she and Ari were putting the Gold Standard together back in the early nineties. It was the only sex work Ari would let her do after they got married because he wasn't cool with her fucking other people after she became a Gold.
But she can smell a bent one way or the other in a mile away. And the day I walked into the office, she knew.
"Promise me right now," she said to me that first day, "that you won't take the bottom position in a kink job unless I clear it." She walked around me in a slow circle, sizing me up like a tailor or a hungry carnivore. "I don't think you know where the line is."
I promised because I didn't then. That's how I got the broken ribs in the first place-wandering stupidly over the line and liking it-right up until I was spitting blood.
She took me under her wing. Part of being a good sub is knowing what you want out of your Dom/me, where you want him to take you. And if you know what you want, you know what to give. It only took me a little bit of practice to be able to give it. Doesn't seem like that should be the case, but it is.
She knows I'm pliable. I change easy from one form to the next. The old hooker cliché, "I'm whoever you want me to be," is a specialty of mine. It makes me think I really could've been a decent actor if I'd had the chance, taken the risk. I can play almost any part the client gives me, and I can make them believe it.
It took her time and resources to train me in some of the things she knows how to do. Using a cane is actually more difficult than it looks. No, really, it's all in the wrist and that's not an easy thing to get down. Feels amazing, but it's tricky.
Tonight's the second time I'm seeing this client. Last time he asked me about knives. Weapons are usually where I draw the line. Too many ways for it to go wrong, too many ways for someone to get hurt-particularly me. But the guy's a bigger sub than I am, and he used to work directly with Mrs. Ari before he came out.
I don't like it. But not every day at work is going to be something you like.
I drag the letters of Chase, the name I give to clients instead of my first, across his skin with the blade because he begs for it. I dwell too long on the letter "e," but he doesn't notice or care.
He's so hard and he cries a little, nothing drastic. It's enough to make me stop and check on him though. He nods through the tears and he's grateful, he says, so fucking grateful, Sir.
His eyes scare me, how badly he wants it. How badly I wish I could trust enough to do what he does. I tap the blade of the mostly dully knife against my lips as I watch him come.
He thanks me more as he shoots across the hotel bedspread. Thank you, Sir. Thank you, thank you thank, over and over.
The tip is more than Turtle made all month.
~*~*~*~
Entry 16
There's a code word. It's kind of James Bond and it's kind of third-grade, no-girls-allowed-in-the-fort, but there it is. It keeps me safe, so Ari claims. He or Mrs. Ari or, vary rarely, someone in upper management calls me at the beginning of a meeting with a client.
If everything's fine, working the way it should, and there's no risk or weirdness, I say, "We're gold." And it's understood that I'm fine. It's Ari's idea of a joke. It was funny the first time, but after a few years it loses its punch.
"I'm fine," or ,"I'm good," is what you say if there's a problem-one you're on your way out of. It's a heads up to whoever Ari's got watching the place to make damn fucking sure I'm out of there and on the street in the next five minutes. I've only had to do that a couple of times.
"Everything is alright," is saved for physical harm and life or death because no, everything is not fucking all right. This fucker's got a gun to my head or a knife in his hands, and I need some back up to crash down the doors and get my ass out of there.
I've never had to use that one. But I know people who have. And it works.
That's where the money really goes. And it seems like a waste, but people get hurt in this business. Hell, it's not unheard of for someone to get killed.
Ari makes sure I'm okay. He takes that very seriously, and that fact keeps me from being too bitter when I hand over his cut.
~*~*~*~
Entry 17
There's a guy in the agency who gets pulled for women with rape fantasies. He's on his way to an actual career, so let's call him L.
L's an incredibly nice guy-a part timer who's a lot more serious about the acting gig than I am. He's a big guy, well on his way to being an action star. He's one of sweetest guys I've ever met, he's in a steady poly relationship, and I know for a fact that he's not a sexually aggressive guy. But the women who want to live out the fantasy violation almost always ask for him.
"I guess I'm the type"," is what L usually says.
I'm not a type, but a client asks me to do L's specialty. A couple. Man with a cuckold fetish and a woman with a rape fetish wanted me to live out a fantasy for them.
He's in his late forties and owns a company that makes…things…I don't know. I didn't care and wasn't listening. The important thing was they wanted me to tie them both up and make him watch me fuck her while they both struggled against their bonds.
It's not the first time a guy's asked me to fuck his wife in front of him (though I can count the times I've been paid to do that on one hand). It is the first time I've had to do a rape fantasy this complicated though. It's not a solo job-Mrs. Ari's got a girl, a pixie blonde with a smoky voice, on her team who's a rope specialist and she comes with me to the hotel to help set up.
"You pull this to tighten it, you pull this to release," Rope Girl says. "And remember not to pull her legs too far apart. A rape fantasy doesn't mean you have to hurt her."
"It doesn't?"
Rope Girl sighs at me. "It's about your will verses hers. That's where the violence is. Be careful with her, okay?"
She says it seriously and it makes me feel guilty for taking this job. She pushes a strand of her short hair behind her ear and doesn't meet my eyes. I don't hug her (I'm not a hugger) but I kind of want to.
"Talk to L," she says. "If you haven't already."
"And he's okay talking about what to do?"
"Yeah."
L's advice mostly has to do with watching her body language and listening to the guy at the same time. I've done groups before, but this is different. This is a whole new kind of careful because I have to do it roughly.
The guy doesn't fight me too hard as I force him into the chair and tighten the ropes. She does, though. She fights and she kicks and she cries, and she gets me in the face with her fist and the neck with her nails. She splits my lip on her elbow before I get her secured.
I want her to say her safe word. I want her to say it or "Red," or something more than what she warned me about, because I want it to stop. I want to walk away from her crying and her husband cursing me. She weeps and shoves against me with her knees and her legs.
I get her off with a sob that breaks my heart and he comes without touching himself. When they've both come, she sags into the bed and closes her eyes, crying quietly. I don't want to know what happened to them that got them here.
"Are you okay?" I'm still inside her when I ask her that. I've asked her that a hundred times in the encounter, but this is the first time she says anything other than, "Yes."
"Can you untie my husband?" she asks me with a raw throat and a quiet voice.
I pull out and untie him, and he runs to her. I peel off the condom and he whispers to her, that she's beautiful, that he loves her, that it's okay, that he's so proud of her-though for what, I don't know. It's not my business. But he doesn't untie her. And she doesn't ask him to. I watch them kiss for a moment, just to make sure.
I've walked away from gangbangs I was the focus of feeling cleaner than I do when I leave the room and disappear into the bathroom. I'm still in the shower when they leave.
~*~*~
Entry 18
I get a check up every three months. My doctor's a nice guy named Jake. He's only about five years older than me, and he isn't happy with what I do.
"Sex work is dangerous, Vince."
Yes, thank you I know that. Every now and then, I have the nightmares.
"Are you sure-"
"Jake, just do my blood work already. You know that this never works. Why do you even try?"
"Hippocratic oath."
"You're no hypocrite," I say, and he rolls his eyes at me. It's an incredibly bad joke, but it breaks the mood.
Jake worked in a free clinic near where my colleagues crawl Sunset for a couple years before he started his practice. One of the girls got herself cleaned up enough to work for Ari, and that's how the Gold Standard started working with him. He wasn't happy, but the agency's money was just as good as anyone's.
And I don't think he could turn the collective hooking "us" away. The guy's seen some things. I don't have any details, but I know what the boys and girls who end up where he worked are like. I used to be one of them. It's not an unfounded thing to worry about.
I'm not great with needles, so I put on my headphones and look away as Jake takes my arm. He's a good guy. Really. But when he's got that fucking needle in his hand, I hate him. It hurts but it's over fast and the needle's gone. I can handle the blood, just not the needle.
He runs through the normal doctor spiel as he wraps up. Then he sends me home to wait for my results to come in the mail.
I'm always more worried about herpes than anything else in these tests than anything. I wear a rubber, but that crap goes from skin to skin, no fluids needed. A bad case is a career ender.
That aside? My heart still stops for a second when my eyes get to the HIV status on the result page. Everything's been negative (aside from the time I caught the clap when I was working back in New York), but it doesn't matter. There's always that second of pure fucking dread followed by immense, physical relief. Always.
"You being careful with the Viagra?" he asks as I roll down my sleeve.
"Yes."
"Your pressure's normal for now, but the way you use that stuff-"
"I don't take it if I don't have to, okay? And I am keeping up with my blood pressure. Plus, my dick's never stayed hard longer than it's supposed to." Not entirely true, but that was for fun and had nothing to do with the little blue pill.
He says nothing, just looks at me, kinda of sad. I sigh and wonder if it wouldn't be easer to have these appointments if I just fucked him already. I've offered but maybe I should be more convincing. But then again, that would probably just make him worse. And I think he might be straight.
~*~*~
Entry 19
Freddy called to say he'll be back in town next Friday. Says he learned some things in Prague.
I can't. Fucking. Wait.
~*~*~
Entry 20
You occasionally get people who want to "take you away". They've seen Pretty Woman too many times and they forget a very important thing-I'm not a fucking girl. You can't marry me and turn me into your housewife that you pay in cash rather than jewelry (although that's a lot more honest).
But still. It happens. Foreigners seem to love to offer that sort of thing. I had the middle-aged princess of a small Slavic country offer to set me up in a castle. I turned her down. I'd have gotten bored.
They fall in love with the idea of you. And people are greedy, so they want you all to themselves. And that can get dangerous. And complicated, because usually they want to live the fantasy without all the paperwork.
This happens more than it should, so I've got a pretty hard and fast rule about not letting clients be lovers. I don't do relationships, but if I did, they wouldn't come from the client pool. I don't fuck anyone who's paid me before for free in the future.
Except for Freddy.
Freddy, who I never see more than three or four times a year. Freddy, who just got back from the Czech Republic with a bag full of toys and some new skill sets he wants to try out. Freddy, who tops me like a fucking god and makes me beg for more.
Freddy.
He's my exception that proves the rule.
And he gets that exception because that first time I fucked him, I really was just looking to get laid. I wanted him just 'cause, and that was before the money. So technically, it doesn't count.
I'm taking five days off work. I've given Ari the heads up.
God save the Queen.
~*~*~
Continue to Entry 21-40
Entries: 1-20 of 150
Status: Complete
Fandom: Entourage
Word Count: ~6,600 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.
Pairing: Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)
Rating: NC-17 for lots and lots of sex
Warnings: AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, adultery, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!
Betas and helpers: guest_age, justabi, allyndra, ariadne83, pesha and deepad were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.
Authors Notes: This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the entourage_fest.
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.
Entry 1
Journaling was never really my thing. But what the hell? My friend Turtle says my life's pretty interesting, but that he could live without the details, so I might as well put them somewhere.
So, here goes. This is number one.
~*~*~
Entry 2
I realize that I forgot to mention before that I fuck people for money. I like it. And more importantly, I'm good at it.
There're plenty of cons, sure, but I get paid a lot, have a disgustingly awesome amount of free time during the day to bum around L.A., and just generally be a lazy son of a bitch.
It works for me. Didn't in the beginning, back in New York when I was just another waste of space pretty boy from a shit neighborhood. But out here on the West Coast, it's good. I've got an agency that takes care of bookings for me and all I have to do is show up and put out.
It's fucking beautiful, baby, and I live very fucking well.
~*~*~
Entry 3
Sometimes, I really fucking hate not having a car. Or being able to drive. Waiting for a ride is a waste of time, but I just don't get on well with cars. Not driving them anyway.
Turtle's another story. He got started in L.A. working on cars for his girlfriend, Kelly's, dad. He's kind of a management/networking guy now for Rufus' company. He's good, too.
But I don't like asking Turtle to drive me places. Especially not for work-related trips. Going to the sex shop to buy girly mags is one thing. It's another thing to drag him to one to watch me buy new butt plugs, a replacement chain for my nipple clamps, and an economy sized bottle of water-based lube.
He doesn't need to see that. He doesn't deserve it.
Still. I hate waiting for the fucking cab to show up. Traffic in L.A. sucks balls.
~*~*~
Entry 4
I have this regular, Scott.
Ari, my agent, hooked me up with the guy when I first got started. He's in his sixties and he's a good guy. I like him. No, really. I do. It took us a little time to warm up to each other and now the working relationship is one of my best. He's one of my longest-standing clients and I've worked hard to keep him, really hard. Usually, he doesn't like to keep a boy around after he stops looking like jailbait, and I'm this close to thirty so yes, my ass is just that good, thanks for asking.
Of course, I'm not a live-in so that helps. I was for awhile though, back in 90's before I started making real money with the agency. It was nice, actually. Great pool, huge TV, DVD player back before everyone had one. And if you could get past the old thing, he was actually a fairly good fuck.
The Daddy thing is kinda weird though. To be honest, after all this time I still find it weird, but it doesn't set of my creep alarm anymore. It's just a kink. Everyone has them. Mine just happens to involve getting tied up and used like a blowup doll. His is more Oedipal, or whatever the male version of wanting to fuck your son is.
He had to get high as hell to break that to me the first time. From what I can remember (not much, I was high, too), he was shy, awkward, and ashamed about the whole thing. He told me about his father the diplomat and there was this whole incident involving a guard in Red Square, but I didn't really follow it. I don't need to. He likes it when I act like a little boy and call him Daddy, so I do. I'd rather he get that with me than with…well, there are places he could go for that, boys he could pay, and I'm glad I'm not them.
He calls me a couple times a month, when his live-in-du-jour won't give him what he needs how he needs it, he wants a threesome, or is just craving someone he's familiar with, and he sends a car. He pays in cash and he kisses both my cheeks, then my lips when he sees me.
But if he's cruising for a group thing or he wants to watch me fuck his boy (I know, I can't believe I get paid for that either), I always check if the guy's legal before we start. So far, none of them have been under 18, but I still like to be sure. I get weekly mani-pedis as part of my work prep and nothing fucks up freshly buffed nails like a day or two in jail.
~*~*~
Entry 5
Women are difficult. I love them-the way the feel, taste, and smell and how they're so fucking different. But they're difficult. Because women like to take me out and show me off. Particularly the ones in and around the business.
In award season, the big money is in women. Sad women. Lonely women. Women who are trying to impress their friends whose husbands still fuck them by bringing a man who's beautiful, strong, and fifteen to forty years younger than she is. They're almost all repeats or are referred by friends and frenemies in similar situations.
But award season ends by March and the rest of the year, the money's in dick. Mine. His. It doesn't really matter. Men pay for sex-,always have, always will-,and in this town, they'll pay twice as much for dick as for pussy.
No. That's not true. Men don't pay twice as much for dick. They pay twice as much for dick to keep its fucking mouth shut and suck, there's a good little boy. Just like that. Yeah, bitch, suck it harder. You like that, you filthy little cocksucker?
Most of the time the answer is no, not really. But I nod, and smile then I turn on the big ole, "Yes baby, I love it," eyes and suck.
I'm good at that one. Mrs. Ari says it's all about my mouth.
"You have a beautiful mouth, Vince, just beautiful," she says most times she sees me. And she caresses it like my mouth is some sort of pet, like one of those rat dogs that fit in your purse. She looks like the kind of big name actress who could have one tucked under her arm as she comes off a film shoot. Only nowadays her look is much more like a Meryl Streep picture than what she used to act in, which was all of the Glory Hole Girl films, one through sixteen.
Ari says it's pure talent, which is somehow worse.
But pure talent doesn't extend to what's required for the award show women. I blow a decent chunk of my commission renting the clothes. If you're going to walk the red carpet, your shirt can't have come from the annual warehouse sale at Barney's. Not when the woman on your arm is wearing 1.8 million dollars in diamonds.
They tend to like me to fuck them in public. Dresses on, stockings around their ankles if they're wearing any at all. Their high heels dig into my ass and they pant, beg, pull on my hair and my suit jacket, and occasionally they rip things, and then I'm out anywhere from five hundred to three grand on something I can't return.
If it weren't for the volume, it wouldn't be worth it. But it definitely keeps me busy one month out of the year. But by March I'm exhausted. Is it summer yet?
~*~*~
Entry 6
My dad died two years ago today.
Johnny picks me up around 2 and gets me shit-faced. Neither of us talk about the time with the stairs. And he doesn't talk the time when I was thirteen and the old man threw me into a chest of drawers and my cracked my skull so hard I was in the hospital for a week. Johnny had to pay for the hospital visit out of the money he made dealing weed because none of us had insurance, but we don't talk about it either.
He doesn't mention how right after I turned sixteen, the old man decided I was a sissy faggot and that I needed it beat out of me. Funny, since that was months before I sucked my first cock or got fucked for the first time. Johnny'd already gone to L.A. by then and there wasn't anything he could do for me.
I don't think about how I spent a two weeks sleeping in the subway tunnels and eating half-eaten burgers out of the trashcans of restaurants before I'd made enough turning ten dollar tricks to get a room. And then I was sharing an apartment with two heroin addicts a year or two older than me who scared the fuck out of me. They had dead eyes and one of them had herpes in his mouth. They worked the same block as I did. Turtle and Johnny are the only reason I'm not still there.
We drink. And then we drink more. And then we drink even more.
I wake up the next morning on Johnny's couch only to throw up in his sink.
~*~*~
Entry 7
Pineapple lube is disgusting. Just putting that out there. Who the fuck comes up with this crap?
~*~*~
Entry 8
The thing I've noticed about female clients-no, fuck that, just clients in general-is that the ones who pay me the most, a lot of them are after the intimacy as much as the orgasm. It's hard to get and people fucking need it.
The big money comes from one place-desperation. The more someone wants something-,the harder it is for them to get it-,the more they're willing to pay for it. It's why Scott pays me a grand a go to fuck me in knee-high socks like a prep-school boy while I beg for more daddy-cock, it's why Babs pays me to tie her up and force-fuck her, and it's why married men shell out three hundred an hour to eat my ass then have me fuck them into the floor. It's also why Shauna pays me to spend three days with her just holding her and being there after awards season ends and why Bob pays me to sleep through the night with him, wrapped around his arthritic body like a shield.
Desperation's gold, Ari says. He's not wrong. But my client tonight is publicly out, rich, powerful, a name that people know, and he's not bad looking either. I think he's just going for convenient. No desperation involved. And that's a relief. Sometimes it's nice to just get paid and get laid.
~*~*~
Entry 9
I love sex. No, really. I like the work I do, but work aside, I fucking love fucking and being fucked-depending on my mood and my recent client history.
Why's it matter now? Last night my client used a vibrator on me. Several. Apparently, she got off on watching guys use toys. She didn't let me fuck her, just rode out the evening with a vibrating egg inside herself while she pushed the buzzing toys in and out until she'd come enough times and our two hours were up.
And it was fun. I actually came, which I don't always do with clients, but it was a huge fucking tease and today I'm horny as fuck and practically gagging for it. I blame the client. Really. I do. Jerk.
I don't have any bookings tonight, though so I have to go out and get tail like a normal person. Getting laid on my own isn't hard, of course. West Hollywood's crawling with bars and I'm good looking enough that I don't have to try.
"Pretty," E'd called it back when we were kids before his dad died and his mom dragged him off to Boston. When we were kids he’d said I was too pretty for sports and to go try drama. And I did. When we were younger, I was in the habit of doing what E said.
People want me, they always have. Sometimes the convenience of having someone else book your fuck for you is nice. But sometimes? It's all about the hunt-whether I'm being hunted or doing the hunting.
I pull a tall, mountain of a blond who doesn't mince words because he's hacked the game. We're in this for the same thing and I can see it in his eyes the first time I look at him. Fucking is as much of a sport for him as it can be a job for me, and he plays to win.
He fucks me over the back of the couch in his apartment-hard, deep, and efficient. Professionally, I actually admire his skills. Personally, his dick curves enough that it hits my prostate every time he slams in, and I see stars behind my eyes. He pulls my hair and he bites my neck, and I come mostly from the inside out, although he's got calloused hands that stroke my dick and sends me over the falls in a fucking barrel. The crash is as good as the fall.
I give him my number because a fuck that good is worth revisiting. But I don't expect to hear from him anytime soon. He's not that kind and neither am I.
~*~*~
Entry 10
Someone's car alarm is going off outside.
Don't they have any fucking decency? Its 1 PM and some of us are trying to sleep.
~*~*~
Entry 11
I came out to L.A. to be an actor. Johnny set me up on his couch and I killed myself trying. I had a GED and a pretty face and hunger to be something more than I was turning into back home-living out the lyrics to that song by Dee Dee Ramone, you know the one. Dom called it the "whore" song, long U sound like in lube.
I didn't trick when I first got to L.A.. I washed dishes and I temped, but I didn't sell it because I was going to make it. I was going to do it right. So I didn't trick.
Not until Freddy.
British, a good fifteen years older, and good looking in a sharp, angular sort of way. He was my first L.A. job-the one who set the ball rolling. He noticed me while I was busing tables at one of the nicer restaurants I'd ever worked at, tipped me a twenty even though bus boys didn't get tips, and left me his phone number written across Jackson's face.
I was 19, I was broke, and I hadn't been laid well since I got to L.A. So I called him and we met at his loft. There was Scotch that was older than me and sex on 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. He sucked my brain out through my dick and then fucked me so hard it nearly broke his headboard. It was cleansing and I felt better about the whole L.A. thing by the time we fucked for the third time, in his shower with my face against the tile, slipping and sliding as he pounded me into the wall.
"How much do I owe you, Sunshine?" he asked as he watched me pull my clothes back on.
I stopped with my shirt half unbuttoned. "What?"
"For tonight," he said, digging into his wallet. "Will four hundred about do it?"
"For the sex?"
"Of course. You're a beautiful boy, Vince. I don't expect someone like you to come cheap. Top of the line you are, gorgeous."
"Five"," I said, shocking myself. But I hadn't been able to pay my share of the rent since I got out to L.A. and I needed it. Wouldn't hurt just this once. And maybe it was the amount, maybe it was the way he looked at me, maybe it was how good the sex was, but it felt different than the tricks I turned back in New York. Powerful. What I did back on the East Coast was desperate so I' could afford somewhere to sleep and a way out.
This wasn't like that. This felt like a reward. Like…if I let myself, it maybe could be something I could be proud of. Like a real job.
He crossed the room with a handful of folded bills. He pushed them into the back pocket of my jeans and kissed me. "Worth every penny," he said against my mouth. "We'll have to do this again sometime, yeah?"
"Yeah."
Freddy was the one who gave me the number for the Gold Standard. It was Freddy who recommended me to Shauna to spread my name around the female client base like wildfire. And it was Freddy who dragged me to Fred Segal and Barney's and D&G and Armani.
"Gotta look the part, don't you, Sunshine. Besides-" He stood behind me in the dressing room, lips on my throat. I looked at the picture we made in the mirror. We could've been. We could've been any of those upper-crust WeHo queer couples. The shoes he bought me were worth more than the mortgage monthly mortgage payment on my mom's house. "I put people and things together to make them more beautiful. And you should look as good as possible with your clothes on before you take them off. "
Most of that stuff is still in my closet. Half of it is too nice to wear to work. The other half is old enough that it doesn't really matter because it doesn't look as expensive as it really was.
I told Johnny it was an acting job when I moved out a week later and in with Scott. He asked where, and with what company, and I was vague and by the first year, when nothing came out and I had all this free fucking time, I think that's when he figured it out.
I told Turtle, though. He'd known about New York and he wasn't happy about me doing it again here, but he didn't fight me.
"You gonna be safe this time?"
"I was safe last time."
"The fuck you were," Turtle snapped. He'd had to lie to Dom about why I needed a ride to the E.R. Broke ribs. That whole thing was a mistake.
"I am, Turtle, Jesus. That's the whole point of going through an agency. This isn't me standing on Sunset turning tricks. It's legit. "
He looked at me like he knew there was an answer in my face, somewhere. To what question, I don't know. But he's my only real friend in L.A., I mean, Jesus, he took the money I made in the city and turned it into enough for us to come out here in the first place, and 'it's nice to have someone I can talk to. He can look at me however the fuck he wants.
~*~*~
Entry 12
"I've got a job for you, Chase. Be at the Beverly Wilshire in one hour. He's in room 207."
I scribble the number then do the math. "I can't get a cab over there and be ready in time. It's rush hour, Ari."
"Then I suggest you run."
He's good at his job and, in his own way, he cares. I know this, but ugh.
Days like this just…fucking Ari.
~*~*~
Entry 13
The client wants me to come on him. He wants to watch me jerk off and come on him. Fairly simple, right? Wrong. Where does he want me to come? Does he want me to eat it? Does he want me to reciprocate? The very fact that he wants me to come changes whether or not I'm going to use Viagra to get it up.
The more I know about the job the better.
For something like this, I use something besides pharmaceuticals. Viagra makes it so you can't come and the clients don't like you to whip out the porn (unless they do first), so I dig in my brain for something that will take me there besides the fact that he's fifty pounds overweight and twenty years older than me.
I think about Freddy's whole tongue inside me, flexing and twisting. It's good but it's not good enough so I reach for an old fantasy, one that is guaranteed to bring me off.
I think about E, back in Queens, covered in freckles with sad eyes. We're in his basement after his dad's funeral, there are still people milling around upstairs moving chairs and bringing food, and he's just told me that his mom's moving. That he's leaving me. And instead of just shrugging, like I did that day, I lean forward and kiss him. He tastes like the cigarettes he stole from his parents' room (his dad's brand), the lasagna Mrs. Carmino brought to the wake, and salt. In my head, he grabs my hair with one hand and works on the fly of my jeans with the other. I lick my way into his mouth and eventually get both our pants off. Or hands tangle together as we thrust and buck between our fingers. He's breathing in short pants from between my lips and it's awkward, clumsy, and pure. E cries out when comes, his hand letting go of my hair so that his arm can snake around my neck and pull me close. I come a few seconds after, in my head and in reality, and spray the skin in front of me with thick spurts.
"I'll be back, Vince," the E in my head promises as I shake myself out of it and come back down to earth.
Reality is ugly. I haven't seen E in fifteen years and my client is scooping my come off his skin with his fingers and sucking them into his mouth, groaning. He rubs the rest of it into his stomach and chest like it's lotion while he brings himself off. I offer to help-to blow him, to jerk him, to ride him, but he just shakes his head.
It's a pretty short booking, but whatever he wants. It's his dime.
~*~*~
Entry 14
I pick up a girl at a bar I go to with Turtle and Johnny. She's got short red hair and she's short, and she reminds me of my friend, E, which is kind of weird and kind of not. If E hadn't gone to Boston-
He did, and that's fine. It's not like he wanted his dad to die. And I get why his mom needed go to her parents. I do. I get all of that, and I'm fine with all of that.
The problem is that we were kids and almost fifteen years later, I shouldn't still care. But I do.
It is what it is. Whatever.
Her name's Maureen. She's got small breasts and these short little unpainted fingernails that she digs with when she comes. She tries not to, but she tears at my shoulders when she comes against my tongue, and she makes this low sound in the back of her throat. It's better than that porn star shit because it's real. She's really coming and she's saying my real name, and I really like her.
Not enough to date or anything. The job gets in the way of dating, and women, especially, aren't down with me fucking other people, particularly men, for money. But I like her.
She rides me and she whimpers, and I push her hair back from her round face. She smiles at me and laughs a little when I thrust up into her. She's soft, wet, warm, and pliant, but strong. She arches her back and her hair falls down over her spine. It thrusts her breasts out and I have to reach up and feel them. Her nipples are hard under my thumbs but the curve her breast is so soft. I'm reminded why women are so fucking amazing.
She leaves her email address on my kitchen table when she leaves. I add it to my address book before the bed gets cold.
~*~*~
Entry 15
I'm submissive by nature. Always have been. When I was a kid, I just figured that E had all the good ideas and that was why I trusted him so implicitly, but when I was fifteen I had a girlfriend who tied me up and blindfolded me, and well…
It's gotten me into a fuck-ton of trouble in my time. Let's just leave it there for now.
It comes up at work though. Mrs. Ari worked as a Domintarix when she and Ari were putting the Gold Standard together back in the early nineties. It was the only sex work Ari would let her do after they got married because he wasn't cool with her fucking other people after she became a Gold.
But she can smell a bent one way or the other in a mile away. And the day I walked into the office, she knew.
"Promise me right now," she said to me that first day, "that you won't take the bottom position in a kink job unless I clear it." She walked around me in a slow circle, sizing me up like a tailor or a hungry carnivore. "I don't think you know where the line is."
I promised because I didn't then. That's how I got the broken ribs in the first place-wandering stupidly over the line and liking it-right up until I was spitting blood.
She took me under her wing. Part of being a good sub is knowing what you want out of your Dom/me, where you want him to take you. And if you know what you want, you know what to give. It only took me a little bit of practice to be able to give it. Doesn't seem like that should be the case, but it is.
She knows I'm pliable. I change easy from one form to the next. The old hooker cliché, "I'm whoever you want me to be," is a specialty of mine. It makes me think I really could've been a decent actor if I'd had the chance, taken the risk. I can play almost any part the client gives me, and I can make them believe it.
It took her time and resources to train me in some of the things she knows how to do. Using a cane is actually more difficult than it looks. No, really, it's all in the wrist and that's not an easy thing to get down. Feels amazing, but it's tricky.
Tonight's the second time I'm seeing this client. Last time he asked me about knives. Weapons are usually where I draw the line. Too many ways for it to go wrong, too many ways for someone to get hurt-particularly me. But the guy's a bigger sub than I am, and he used to work directly with Mrs. Ari before he came out.
I don't like it. But not every day at work is going to be something you like.
I drag the letters of Chase, the name I give to clients instead of my first, across his skin with the blade because he begs for it. I dwell too long on the letter "e," but he doesn't notice or care.
He's so hard and he cries a little, nothing drastic. It's enough to make me stop and check on him though. He nods through the tears and he's grateful, he says, so fucking grateful, Sir.
His eyes scare me, how badly he wants it. How badly I wish I could trust enough to do what he does. I tap the blade of the mostly dully knife against my lips as I watch him come.
He thanks me more as he shoots across the hotel bedspread. Thank you, Sir. Thank you, thank you thank, over and over.
The tip is more than Turtle made all month.
~*~*~*~
Entry 16
There's a code word. It's kind of James Bond and it's kind of third-grade, no-girls-allowed-in-the-fort, but there it is. It keeps me safe, so Ari claims. He or Mrs. Ari or, vary rarely, someone in upper management calls me at the beginning of a meeting with a client.
If everything's fine, working the way it should, and there's no risk or weirdness, I say, "We're gold." And it's understood that I'm fine. It's Ari's idea of a joke. It was funny the first time, but after a few years it loses its punch.
"I'm fine," or ,"I'm good," is what you say if there's a problem-one you're on your way out of. It's a heads up to whoever Ari's got watching the place to make damn fucking sure I'm out of there and on the street in the next five minutes. I've only had to do that a couple of times.
"Everything is alright," is saved for physical harm and life or death because no, everything is not fucking all right. This fucker's got a gun to my head or a knife in his hands, and I need some back up to crash down the doors and get my ass out of there.
I've never had to use that one. But I know people who have. And it works.
That's where the money really goes. And it seems like a waste, but people get hurt in this business. Hell, it's not unheard of for someone to get killed.
Ari makes sure I'm okay. He takes that very seriously, and that fact keeps me from being too bitter when I hand over his cut.
~*~*~*~
Entry 17
There's a guy in the agency who gets pulled for women with rape fantasies. He's on his way to an actual career, so let's call him L.
L's an incredibly nice guy-a part timer who's a lot more serious about the acting gig than I am. He's a big guy, well on his way to being an action star. He's one of sweetest guys I've ever met, he's in a steady poly relationship, and I know for a fact that he's not a sexually aggressive guy. But the women who want to live out the fantasy violation almost always ask for him.
"I guess I'm the type"," is what L usually says.
I'm not a type, but a client asks me to do L's specialty. A couple. Man with a cuckold fetish and a woman with a rape fetish wanted me to live out a fantasy for them.
He's in his late forties and owns a company that makes…things…I don't know. I didn't care and wasn't listening. The important thing was they wanted me to tie them both up and make him watch me fuck her while they both struggled against their bonds.
It's not the first time a guy's asked me to fuck his wife in front of him (though I can count the times I've been paid to do that on one hand). It is the first time I've had to do a rape fantasy this complicated though. It's not a solo job-Mrs. Ari's got a girl, a pixie blonde with a smoky voice, on her team who's a rope specialist and she comes with me to the hotel to help set up.
"You pull this to tighten it, you pull this to release," Rope Girl says. "And remember not to pull her legs too far apart. A rape fantasy doesn't mean you have to hurt her."
"It doesn't?"
Rope Girl sighs at me. "It's about your will verses hers. That's where the violence is. Be careful with her, okay?"
She says it seriously and it makes me feel guilty for taking this job. She pushes a strand of her short hair behind her ear and doesn't meet my eyes. I don't hug her (I'm not a hugger) but I kind of want to.
"Talk to L," she says. "If you haven't already."
"And he's okay talking about what to do?"
"Yeah."
L's advice mostly has to do with watching her body language and listening to the guy at the same time. I've done groups before, but this is different. This is a whole new kind of careful because I have to do it roughly.
The guy doesn't fight me too hard as I force him into the chair and tighten the ropes. She does, though. She fights and she kicks and she cries, and she gets me in the face with her fist and the neck with her nails. She splits my lip on her elbow before I get her secured.
I want her to say her safe word. I want her to say it or "Red," or something more than what she warned me about, because I want it to stop. I want to walk away from her crying and her husband cursing me. She weeps and shoves against me with her knees and her legs.
I get her off with a sob that breaks my heart and he comes without touching himself. When they've both come, she sags into the bed and closes her eyes, crying quietly. I don't want to know what happened to them that got them here.
"Are you okay?" I'm still inside her when I ask her that. I've asked her that a hundred times in the encounter, but this is the first time she says anything other than, "Yes."
"Can you untie my husband?" she asks me with a raw throat and a quiet voice.
I pull out and untie him, and he runs to her. I peel off the condom and he whispers to her, that she's beautiful, that he loves her, that it's okay, that he's so proud of her-though for what, I don't know. It's not my business. But he doesn't untie her. And she doesn't ask him to. I watch them kiss for a moment, just to make sure.
I've walked away from gangbangs I was the focus of feeling cleaner than I do when I leave the room and disappear into the bathroom. I'm still in the shower when they leave.
~*~*~
Entry 18
I get a check up every three months. My doctor's a nice guy named Jake. He's only about five years older than me, and he isn't happy with what I do.
"Sex work is dangerous, Vince."
Yes, thank you I know that. Every now and then, I have the nightmares.
"Are you sure-"
"Jake, just do my blood work already. You know that this never works. Why do you even try?"
"Hippocratic oath."
"You're no hypocrite," I say, and he rolls his eyes at me. It's an incredibly bad joke, but it breaks the mood.
Jake worked in a free clinic near where my colleagues crawl Sunset for a couple years before he started his practice. One of the girls got herself cleaned up enough to work for Ari, and that's how the Gold Standard started working with him. He wasn't happy, but the agency's money was just as good as anyone's.
And I don't think he could turn the collective hooking "us" away. The guy's seen some things. I don't have any details, but I know what the boys and girls who end up where he worked are like. I used to be one of them. It's not an unfounded thing to worry about.
I'm not great with needles, so I put on my headphones and look away as Jake takes my arm. He's a good guy. Really. But when he's got that fucking needle in his hand, I hate him. It hurts but it's over fast and the needle's gone. I can handle the blood, just not the needle.
He runs through the normal doctor spiel as he wraps up. Then he sends me home to wait for my results to come in the mail.
I'm always more worried about herpes than anything else in these tests than anything. I wear a rubber, but that crap goes from skin to skin, no fluids needed. A bad case is a career ender.
That aside? My heart still stops for a second when my eyes get to the HIV status on the result page. Everything's been negative (aside from the time I caught the clap when I was working back in New York), but it doesn't matter. There's always that second of pure fucking dread followed by immense, physical relief. Always.
"You being careful with the Viagra?" he asks as I roll down my sleeve.
"Yes."
"Your pressure's normal for now, but the way you use that stuff-"
"I don't take it if I don't have to, okay? And I am keeping up with my blood pressure. Plus, my dick's never stayed hard longer than it's supposed to." Not entirely true, but that was for fun and had nothing to do with the little blue pill.
He says nothing, just looks at me, kinda of sad. I sigh and wonder if it wouldn't be easer to have these appointments if I just fucked him already. I've offered but maybe I should be more convincing. But then again, that would probably just make him worse. And I think he might be straight.
~*~*~
Entry 19
Freddy called to say he'll be back in town next Friday. Says he learned some things in Prague.
I can't. Fucking. Wait.
~*~*~
Entry 20
You occasionally get people who want to "take you away". They've seen Pretty Woman too many times and they forget a very important thing-I'm not a fucking girl. You can't marry me and turn me into your housewife that you pay in cash rather than jewelry (although that's a lot more honest).
But still. It happens. Foreigners seem to love to offer that sort of thing. I had the middle-aged princess of a small Slavic country offer to set me up in a castle. I turned her down. I'd have gotten bored.
They fall in love with the idea of you. And people are greedy, so they want you all to themselves. And that can get dangerous. And complicated, because usually they want to live the fantasy without all the paperwork.
This happens more than it should, so I've got a pretty hard and fast rule about not letting clients be lovers. I don't do relationships, but if I did, they wouldn't come from the client pool. I don't fuck anyone who's paid me before for free in the future.
Except for Freddy.
Freddy, who I never see more than three or four times a year. Freddy, who just got back from the Czech Republic with a bag full of toys and some new skill sets he wants to try out. Freddy, who tops me like a fucking god and makes me beg for more.
Freddy.
He's my exception that proves the rule.
And he gets that exception because that first time I fucked him, I really was just looking to get laid. I wanted him just 'cause, and that was before the money. So technically, it doesn't count.
I'm taking five days off work. I've given Ari the heads up.
God save the Queen.
~*~*~
Continue to Entry 21-40