Diary of a Seattle Male Call Boy Prostitute

Sex sells. You heard it here first. I just read that someone digitally masquerading as a London call girl snagged a book deal on the merits of her anemic blog. I came across her web page a while back, before she got the book deal. All I could think was that if she fucks like she writes I hope she hasn’t quit her day job. She writes about sex with about the same enthusiasm as the 65 year old Mexican grandmother from my earlier post. I seriously doubt she is a hooker at all but someone who simply knows how to grab prurient readers by the short hairs. Now she has a book deal. Bitter? Not me.

Sex sells, so I’ve been told. Two can play that game and I’m sure there are lot more than two people writing fictitious accounts of their “lives.” I can never understand why so many people care to read about other people’s not-very-interesting sexual encounters. If it’s uninteresting you want, then that’s what you’re going to get. It’s time to tell you about my life.

This is a website about a male call boy, me, but not a call boy for boys, and not one who caters to pathetic old hags who can’t talk someone into greasing them for free. This is a website about a call boy who gets paid to get dirty with beautiful and disease-free women, because that’s what people want to read about. There are probably a few people who wouldn’t mind reading about a call boy who has sex with old ladies, but they probably aren’t big spenders, so who wants to fill the demographic need in that market? Not me.

Just last night I got paid to have sex with four hot women—all at once. In call boy parlance we call that a fivesome. In France they call it a ménage à cinq, and not only is a doctor’s permission required, but hotels make you put down a damage deposit for the steam cleaning. I don’t mean to brag about my performance but one of the gorgeous ladies ended up in the emergency room. She has to wear a patch over one eye for the next two weeks. Is that sordid enough for you?

I was paid one million dollars for my efforts, but since I was in Paris I was paid in Euros which meant I had to jump the turn-style at the metro station to get back to my hotel. Bad exchange rates are an occupational hazard of male call boys.

Next week I am off to Las Vegas to work the game show hostess convention. Instead of money I usually get paid in merchandise. I don’t mean to sound jaded about my work but if you’ve seen one Victoria’s Secret model bound and gagged you’ve seen them all—and I’ve seen them all bound and gagged, in fact, I did the binding and gagging.

It isn’t all glamour being a male call boy. I have to buy Viagra in bulk at Costco. What I really miss in this line of work is cuddling. Most super models don’t like to cuddle. There won’t be any cuddling next week when I have a gig working the glory hole in the women’s bathroom at the Academy Awards show.

What could be better reading than a blog about a male call boy who gets paid to do the wild thing with famous women? I can’t mention any names because of contractual obligations but I can make anagrams of their names. Is an anagram that thing that is the same backward as forward? Wait, that’s a palindrome. Anagrams are when you mix up the letters to make another word. I’m not smart enough to do that and if you have read this far you are probably too dumb to figure out who I’m talking about. Let me just say that last week I was paid to have sex with someone whose name rhymes with Brickney Beers. And hey Moprah, your check bounced.