The premise was simple. Just show up, get sucked off for an hour, and get paid some cash. I didn’t have anything planned for the evening, so why not?
I’d come across the ad in the Craigslist “gigs” section while I was in town for business. I travel a lot for work, and from time to time I’ll make use of my downtime by browsing Craigslist for gigs that might be amusing and offer a bit of extra mad money. If it involved me getting out of my clothes, all the better since I get into that, and this had led to all range of art modeling gigs, go-go dancing, and the like. But this one was different.
I’d seen this ad when I’d been in town before, so it was recurring. The premise was it offered an easy way to make xtra cash quick by just kicking back, relaxing and watching TV. Great for single or married guys the ad assured, and could even be done once a week or more on a regular basis. Though the ad didn’t mention the cocksucking part, I expected it would involve something along those lines. I mean, what could be more relaxing? Having seen the on prior visits and being sufficiently intrigued, I texted the number and made my introduction.
What I wasn’t expecting (though shouldn’t have been surprised) was an intricate protocol for how this relaxation was to occur. There were questions about footwear, whether to wear boots or sneakers. There were instructions not to shower beforehand, and agreement that I’d go to the gym first. Then the question: U ever have a one hour bj?
One hour? Sure that sounds relaxing, but also challenging. Could I make it through an entire hour without coming too soon? I figured if I couldn’t make it to the end, the deal would be off. Sure enough, there was instruction to provide a specific agreed-upon signal if I got too close; if I gave the signal, the bj would stop for a few minutes until I’d gone soft and could start over. Got it, check.
But there was more. I’d be sitting at a desk, watching TV or checking email or Facebook on my phone, and wouldn’t see who was under the desk sucking my dick. Not only that, but I was expected to ignore him. No praise, no talk. The instructions were to check the time on my phone when I arrived, and once an hour had elapsed I could finally come. Then get dressed and walk out without talking, and pick up the envelope on the floor containing the cash.
I was told I could smoke cigarettes while relaxing. Well, I don’t smoke except for the occasional cigar, so said I’d pick up a cigar on the way. He seemed to like this idea. Sit back and relax with a good cigar he responded.
Writing about this after the fact, I have to wonder how crazy I was to go through with this. How many ways could this have ended up badly? Hadn’t I seen all eight seasons of Dexter? Yet something about the wording of the ad, the subsequent text exchanges, and that I’d seen the ad posted each time I’d been in town, seemed all OK and nothing more than harmless kink. That, and the location of the house I was given the address to come to.
The house was situated in an affluent outer suburb, in what looked in the dark to be a relatively new subdivision. The only thing missing was the picket fences. Perhaps it was my being horny or the thrill of the adventure that propelled me along against all common sense, but the setting seemed benign.
Entering the house, I was surprised to find it was empty of all furnishings except for a card table and chair, and a flat screen TV. sitting on top of a cardboard box. The house was dark except for the glow from the TV, and from a small monitor showing porn. I sat down, lit up my cigar, and allowed the relaxation to commence.
No, I’d never had a one-hour blowjob. This was a new experience, and a damn pleasurable one at that, but also not surprisingly it was a challenge. But all went fine with the signals, I was able to control myself, and I made my way through my cigar. Around 40 minutes into it, I thought this is starting to feel like work, and I looked forward to hitting the 60-minute mark. On my phone I checked email, read Facebook, and scanned some news articles. Finally the one-hour mark came and so did I. In silence I got dressed, picked up the before-mentioned envelope of cash off the floor, and made my way out the door. I never talked to or saw the guy under the desk, but I give them kudos for his enthusiastic cocksucking skills not to mention his endurance.
Walking back to my car I noticed a detail I hadn’t noticed on the way in: a for sale sign in the front yard. Apparently the house was for sale. That would explain why there was no furniture. I could only imagine there must be a story here, but didn’t think more of it other than it being some harmless suburban kink.
But by the time I’d got back to my hotel my curiosity had got the better of me, so I Googled the street address of the house to see what would come up. Sure enough, the house was on the market as an active listing. So what was the story here? Was the man under the desk the owner of the house? The realtor or property owner? An opportunistic neighbor? It made me think that vacant houses invite mischief.
* * *
A few months later I found myself at another upscale house in another affluent suburb, but in a different city. This time, it was to attend a private stripper party put on by one of the stripper bars in town. Every few months they’d have a private house party where the club’s strippers would be completely naked for the duration. Whereas in the regular club the guys would only be allowed to strip down to their briefs and jocks, at this party they’d dispense with all that. In fact, there was no striptease at all – they’d simply wander around the party naked, and offer lap dances in a separate room. If you were on the club’s email list, you’d receive an invite. This particular time I was in town so went to check it out.
The setup for the event was that the guests would keep their clothes on, same as they would in the regular club, and only the strippers would go naked. So in this respect this was different than a sex party at someone’s house, in that, well, it wasn’t a sex party. It was pretty much the same as going to the regular strip club, except the strippers were naked and it was held in a house rather than a bar.
This time I was a guest, so my clothes would be staying on.
The location of the party was sent out in the email a couple of days before. The instructions described where to park, and emphasized the need to be discreet and respectful since this was a residential neighborhood. Nevertheless I knew I’d found the place when I saw the large number of parked cars.
The house was a giant 1980s-era pile with all the flourishes: double-height entry, winding staircase, and wide expanses of white carpeting. The kitchen doubled as an impromptu BYOB bar. Furniture appeared to have been cleared out for the event, except for a few sofas and folding chairs. In one corner there was a pile of framed artwork, neatly stacked up against the wall.
They’d done a great job of selecting a variety of strippers, and having them parading around the party naked was something to behold. I was the kid in the candy store, going out for lap dances with each guy who caught my eye, then moving on to the next. My wallet was definitely lighter at the end of it all.
From time to time I’d thought of throwing a party like this back home but couldn’t figure out where to have it. My little apartment would never suffice and my neighbors wouldn’t put up with it. I’d looked at listings on Airbnb but so many of them have restrictions not allowing events or parties. I’d wanted to attend this party not just to see the naked guys, but also to see how they orchestrated the whole thing.
This house, with its minimal furnishings and generic décor, didn’t feel like anyone lived here. It felt more like a full-time vacation rental, and I figured it was one of the few airbnb rentals that allowed events. How much would it cost to rent a house like this for this kind of party? Could the event pencil out once the house and strippers were paid for?
When I got back to my hotel I checked Airbnb and VRBO to see if the house was listed. Nope, nothing in the area. So what was the deal with this place? I googled the street address and bingo… the house was for sale. Though there was no for sale sign out front, the listing showed the house was not only actively on the market, but in contract.
This brought me back to my craigslist adventure a few months earlier. Like before, I wondered what the story was – in this case, how an empty house on the market came to be the venue for a private stripper party. Was the owner involved, or the realtor? Did the owner even know about it?
It made me think again how there’s something about vacant houses that invite mischief. An empty house, available to accommodate the kinds of kicks we don’t dare do in our own homes. It’s almost like the emptiness itself invites one to contemplate making use of the place for acting out whatever peculiar fantasy comes to mind. The empty rooms, the bare walls, practically beg for something clandestine.
But nothing too wild. After all, escrow’s closing in thirty days.