The male prostitute...

Was his name Dave? Or was it James? Every couple of weekends he'd show in the morning -- sounding like he'd pulled an all-nighter, and what was he waiting for again? Sounded like a driver, a buddy -- or a bus (but they were already running by that time...), and he worked a day job, as a mechanic. He wanted to be the best Mercedes, or Peugeot or something fancy sounding and I think with two words (so neither of those!) mechanic. His dad was a mechanic.

"The best," he had said.
And he wanted to one day take over, to be as good as his dad was -- as successful.
To make his father proud.

He was covered in tattoos, and was dirty blonde with some kind of facial hair...a goatee? He always wore a ball cap, a black band t-shirt, jeans. I knew what kind of man I expected him to be -- I'd seen his "kind" before, especially in Australia. But I was mistaken. He'd seen a lot, but was gentle and soft-spoken and seemed to have a genuine respect for women from all that he had seen, and despite everything he had seen.

He usually stayed at least three hours with me in the store, and if I had a customer, he'd browse -- or if there was a lull in the conversation, he'd find some product to mention briefly to reignite dialogue -- but he'd seen it all before and it had long since lost its appeal for him. He seemed tired of 'raunchy', with gentle blue (hazel?) eyes -- maybe always heart-broken, maybe just a little lonely.

If I was tired, he would buy me a coffee from around the corner so I could work. He had been working all night at his other life.

"Don't tell the guys I work with", he said to me once. As though I had any connection to either of his lives -- an access that would ruin him, crumple him. He knew I wouldn't.
I was his ally, his therapist, his surrogate girlfriend, his safe-haven. He came in because he found in me some kindred spirit. I understood him. I listened to him. I didn't judge him.

We both worked in the Adult Industry: I hawked illegal wares -- pornography-- on DVDs, VHS, the internet, magazines. I spent my days explaining the difference between vibrators made in China and those manufactured in Japan -- whether silicone, latex, or glass was more enjoyable, more hygienic, more affordable. At the end of my shifts, I cleaned semen from the walls of "viewing booths".

For what it was, I liked my job. I enjoyed the interactions, the opportunity to educate and to learn. The money way great. I can see why he was drawn to the store. And I was drawn to him.
He intrigued me -- I had never met a male prostitute before.

Of course, he wasn't a call-boy anymore -- though I had heard many stories about the women he worked for: either voracious for his body, for the sexual acts which they were buying from him, or else desperate for companionship, the warmth and presence of a male body, a sympathetic ear, simulated love.

He wasn't even a stripper anymore -- a job he forfeited after realizing he didn't want to be addicted to cocaine, and shouldn't have to get so high he had out-of-body experiences simply to perform the tasks required of his profession. That wasn't the life he wanted for himself. He wanted success -- he wanted to make his father proud.

By the time I met him, he worked in a brothel...as a secretary, in charge of the bookings of rooms and the assigning of women to the men who chose them for the predetermined amount of time.

I remember him telling me how the workers were required to line up for selection by the customers, how degrading it seemed, and the vicious cycle that ensued, from the girls who wouldn't get picked then losing confidence, becoming desperate and therefore undesirable, to the girls whose egos would inflate from a string of "good days". The in-fighting was debilitating, he said, the women would find ways to sabotage, slander, and frustrate the businesses of one another in a competition that makes it hard to believe there could be anything empowering about the sex trade.

I remember his cautionary tales about dating the girls he worked with -- as though I might accidentally make his mistakes -- and how the stories seemed like a confession of his loneliness, and his vulnerability.

He used to talk about being hopeless with women, paralyzed to approach anyone he liked, despite all the time he spent with them, observing them, serving them -- that it had made him overly sensitive to them. He told me several times that he couldn't, for the life of him, ever make the first move. I wondered, after a few weeks, if maybe he meant me.

I think the reason he did it was the money. I remember him saving up for something, but I don't remember what. I vaguely remember it being something admirable -- to achieve his ultimate goal: top mechanic. His father's pride. His unknowing father's pride. My Masculinities class would have shit itself over a story like this.

I don't remember what we talked about the last time I saw him. I don't remember if we knew or acknowledged that it would be the last time we saw each other, or the last time we spoke. I wish we could have debriefed, or kept in touch. There were such funny lines to be drawn in that store, and I wish one of us had done something to break through. I will not ever find him again. He always came in on a Saturday. He always stayed for hours, just for my company, my conversation.

He never once spent any money in the store -- he only ever spent his time.