I remember the first time I saw an escort. It was about eight years ago. I’d fixated on an escort named Peter, who was a hunky Australian guy living in San Francisco with brooding dark features and a knock-out body. He’d been doing some porn locally, and was listed on one of the escort websites for appointments. I’d never been with such a stunning specimen of a man, hadn’t even been close enough to touch. Sure my boyfriend was no slouch, but this was an enticing novelty. The thought of getting down and dirty with this guy seemed impossible to believe.
I gathered up my cash and made the appointment through email. He was warm and friendly in his written correspondence, and turned out to live only a block away. On the appointed day I waited out the clock, so nervous. Not time yet, not time yet… OK, time to walk over to his place. Oh shit. Walking out my front door towards his place felt like taking the plunge into a cold swimming pool.
Ringing the bell to his place, I got a weird cross between first-date jitters and something else. It’s that nervousness that comes with finally taking the plunge on something that you’ve been wanting to do but have been anxious or afraid to go forward with. “Rite of passage” anxiety, you could call it. I’ve known this feeling before. The first time shaving. The first time a friend took me to the gym to work out in the weight room. Taking a shower at that same gym, the first time in a common shower with naked guys all around. The first time meeting a guy for a date. The first time getting together with a guy to have sex. And now the first time having sex with a guy hotter than my wildest dreams… and having sex with a hooker.
Peter opened the door with a big smile. He looked much more approachable and less intimidating than the photos, and he proved to be instantly friendly. None of the reserve and attitude that comes with a regular hook-up.
We went directly to his room. A bit of small-talk but then down to business. This was something different than going home with a guy on a date or meeting for a hookup – the reason we were together was clearly understood and there was no need for social formalities.
I’d read his online profile so knew he liked to do the things I like, particularly kissing and body contact, so we dove right in. I gotta say he was one of the most stunning men I’d been with, what with his handsome face, hard body, and sexy Australian accent. Initially I’d planned to be the bottom, but when I saw his perfect ass I had the urge to fuck him. I told him this and he chuckled, then obliged. So me on top, then flipping and me on bottom, all the while still not quite believing this was really happening.
After a while Peter shot his load, then it was my turn. But a weird thing happened. I couldn’t come! Several times while we were playing I’d been very close to coming and had held off, but now that it was time to shoot it wasn’t happening. How could this be, not being able to get off despite having this hot hunk by my side? Peter was concerned and asked if I was OK. “Yeah, I’m fine but I can’t believe this is happening. It never happens. Maybe it’s the antidepressant.” Then I had to do what I never expected to have to do in the company of such a man, I had to fantasize about something and someone else. I can’t remember what I fantasized about but it was enough to get me to the edge. Then Peter put his arm behind his head and the sight of his armpit finally drove me over the top. So it turns out I have an armpit fetish.
There have been times since then that I’ve been with hot guys and something similar has happened. Being in the company of a sexy stud but not being able to get off. It doesn’t happen all the time, but every now and then. And it doesn’t matter how hot the guy is, it seems to have nothing to do with that. Chalk one up to sexual dysfunction!
Things ended just fine with Peter. I cleaned myself up, gathered my stuff, left my cash on the side table, and he gave me a hug. He smiled and said he hoped I’d enjoyed myself. There was none of the uncertainty that comes at the end of a trick or date, of what to do next. Was this liberating or sad? The session was over and that was that. But it could happen again just as easily with an email and a couple hundred bucks. Very straightforward.
And that’s why I hired my first escort. I wanted to see what it was like, and now I knew.