A Freelance Production in Soho [NSFW]

He was at a hotel in SoHo when my profile showed up across the river, likely geotargeting a hairy Brooklyn boy or lonely artist looking to make rent.

This was after Rentboy.com shut down but before OnlyFans opened: Hard times creating a hole in the market for closeted men, unattractive guys with high standards, or busy traveling professionals with no time but cash to burn.

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I exited the Spring St subway stop and walked West towards the other river. I had already sussed out this would be a nice hotel with a proper doorman to ring me up. Along with my assumption that it was generally unwise to murder someone in your hotel room where your driver's license and credit card are stored with a steady stream of security footage, I felt relatively safe, likely why I’d made it this far instead of devising a plan, blocking his profile in terror, getting stoned & jerking off like I previously would.

I was announced and sent up in a mirrored elevator that would normally inspire selfies, but instead, I got one last look at the pic he sent from his blank profile.

The challenge with booking sex work as a timid amateur on an app that ‘prohibits’ this communication is that it encourages the profile of the initiator to be empty, giving them even more power in the situation.

All I had to work with was a passably handsome but grainy headshot: a 5-8, 165 lbs stat, and a room number that was fast approaching. He, however, had my fully fleshed-out profile with diverse pics in various states of undress, showing my broad range of interests and moods in different social settings, physical stats, sexual proclivities, and my desire for an LTR with links to my socials and website.

He answered immediately in a jock strap that I saw was also a thong when he turned around. I followed him into the room and sat on the cleanly made bed.

‘Do you want a drink? A beer?’ He pointed at the open six-pack on the dresser, but I shook my head.

‘I’m good, thanks. Whatcha doing in town?’

‘Finishing a production,’ He told me it was a film when I asked what kind, but not what it was about when I dug further.

‘I’m a songwriter,’ I volunteered to a silent nodding response. ‘…how long are you here for?’

He positioned me on the corner of the bed and crouched in front of the full-length mirror, where I saw myself looking back. ‘All week, so if things go well,’ he mumbled while fumbling with my belt, a deeply repressed southern accent creeping out with a nod over at a roll of cash on the dresser, ‘maybe time for a repeat’.

A proper professional would have asked for and counted the money first, but that felt so unsexy, so unromantic. Shouldn’t there be some element of make-believe that this is all for fun? And at the end, the money just lands in my hands like a bonus round of ejaculate at the gay casino?

Which makes me a terrible businessman, I know. I didn’t even negotiate a rate; that roll could be all ones. The truth is that, as much as I needed the money, I also had to find out: Could I detach my feelings and utilize my assets to my advantage? I wanted to try, and felt I needed to if I were to make it as an artist in this transactional climate, making ends meet but just barely, with my time at a premium and my body the most uniformly popular creation I’d ever shared. However, even hooking up was often difficult because I would become attached. But this... the stakes were clear.

One hand reached under my shirt as the other unzipped me, both sets of eyes locking. He hadn’t asked for any dick pics, and now I was nervous I would disappoint. I took my shirt off with a deep belly breath.

Fortunately, he was good at this, and I was responding, focusing my body to let the sensations drain my feelings, but it was an effort. I don’t generally do well with passive pleasure but, I was on the job, so I ran my hands through his thinning hair, made eye contact, threw in some deep-throated ‘fuck yeahs’ and ‘suck that cock’s, which is the extent of my dirty talk before I start getting self-conscious and physically disembodying, floating above myself and losing my erection.

Then he did that thing where they come up for air just a few inches below your eyeline to pant in your face and show you how wet and welcoming their mouths are, so I instinctively went in for a kiss, but he held me back with an extended arm and returned to devouring my dick, eyes searing up into mine.

I never understood how to get a blow job. You just sit there and…receive pleasure?

I stood to fuck his face undeterred, caressing my hands down his smooth, olive oil back and reaching inside his thong to fondle him, but he swatted me away and pulled it out to finish himself efficiently on the floor with a strained yelp, maintaining furious eye contact the whole time.

Over and out the window, I looked to where the sun had just set below New Jersey and felt a crumble of dollar bills placed against my dwindling erection. He snapped my boxer briefs up to secure the money and stood looking out the same window, now in a white hotel robe, hands on his hips, a gelatinous mess left at my feet.

‘Have you had dinner? Wanna get a bite? A drink?’ I stood and smiled at him, buttoning up my jeans and throwing my shirt on.

‘Now you want a drink?’ He laughed at me, ‘Thanks, but I’m good for the night.'

If this had been a normal hookup or date, I would’ve given him a kiss or a hug or said something kind at the door, and had to refrain from doing so. Instead, he led me away with a highball glass of beer in one hand, thanking me for the dick, telling me that this was hot, but to get back to Brooklyn before the ferries stop for the night.