Holy Hustling

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This is what happened.

It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm standing in a hotel hallway, knocking on this door. A voice says 'come on in'and it's not locked so I go in. A man is sitting on the bed, resting his back against the headboard. He looks about 40, and he's a big man -- six foot two maybe, 200 pounds. He's wearing white cotton diapers and a cute little shirt with fire trucks all over it. The safety pins on the diapers have yellow plastic duck heads, and as I get closer I see that the shoes, which are white, are monogrammed with a fancy capital G. There is an economy-sized can of Johnson's baby powder on the bedside table. The man smiles at me and says, 'Baby Geoffwey glad to see Daddy.'

I want you to know I didn't miss a beat. I just said, 'And Daddy's really glad to see Baby Geoffrey too.'

I didn't giggle until I'd left that room, 40 minutes later and 60 bucks richer. I didn't giggle because I knew Baby Geoffrey didn't want to be laughed at. He'd called me because he'd wanted his diaper changed and his hiney oiled and he wanted Daddy to tell him about how we were going shopping and how strict Daddy would be if Geoffrey cried and the nice things Daddy would do if Geoffrey was a good boy. Geoffrey was a very good boy. So Daddy oiled more than Geoffrey's hiney.

I didn't laugh at Baby Geoffrey, and I think that's when I knew I couldn't pretend anymore that I was just dabbling in this for a few extra bucks. Fact is, I had become a prostitute. A whore. I had -- I have -- sex with men for money.

I am not 16 years old, fresh off the bus from Northern Ontario, jobless, working the streets, hating myself and my johns, seeking oblivion in drugs. I am not, on the other hand, a sculpted, well-hung, muscular hunk who spends half the day at the gym and the other half leafing through magazines, waiting for the phone to ring.

And, because I know you're wondering: I'm not getting rich at this. And I have yet to do it with a Supreme Court judge.

This is what I am: 49 years old, with a plain face. I have a better body than most 49-year-olds. It's quite hairy -- a real turn-on for many men -- though I shave my shoulders, back, and balls in the belief that the overall look is more pleasing. I have a great ass and a smallish cock. I know how to make men feel comfortable from the moment they arrive. I take pride in my work. I try to do a good job.

I'm also a frequently published journalist who has won two Canadian National Magazine Awards.

I feel part of an unrecognized social phenomenon: whores with attitude, men and women who choose this profession, who have perfected that most ingratiating of personality traits -- shamelessness. It is a shamelessness untarnished by insolence, by the bravado of those who suspect they are in fact quite as trashy as everyone thinks they are.

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