The Accidental Escort

Blackmaster, 37, is an escort in Paris. after trying out his trade I think I will keep my day job. Photo courtesy of Gay Escort Club.

Blackmaster, 37, is an escort in Paris. After trying out his trade I think I will keep my day job. Photo courtesy of Gay Escort Club.

I have a new profile on Adam4Adam. The text is short and sweet — not looking for a relationship, just pleasurable encounters.

I don’t list a lot of likes and dislikes – who cares? If someone hits me up and I’m not feeling them I just say, “I’m just an escort using this website to keep in contact with clients.”

That sometimes scares them off. But many times men will ask. “Well, how much are you?”

I make up a number. “$125 an hour.”

And believe it or not some peeps say they will pay.

One day a light-skinned black married man hit me up. He was an educational consultant in the area on business and staying at a hotel at BWI airport about five miles away. He said he would be happy to pay  for my time.

From his photos he was not that appealing. Overweight and a grandfather a little over 60 years old. But he offered the money and I thought, “Hey, I’ve always fantasized about being an escort or a porn star. This might be interesting. And if nothing else I can say I tried it out.”

I dressed conservatively in gray wool slacks, burgundy sweater, and a long wool coat. But underneath I had on a pair of sexy, black sheer briefs.

I showed up at the hotel. And he opened the door.

He was 20 pounds heavier than his profile. His legs looked like tree stumps. My stomach flopped but I smiled politely.

What have I gotten myself into? How can escorts do this?

He didn’t see my disappointment. In fact, he was delighted. He asked me to undress in front of him and I did, slowly. His eyes ate me up.

“Very nice. I love a mature man in shape.”

We went to bed and he played with my dick, masturbating me. It only got half hard but he still was pleased with the length of it.

“Wow, I hope I don’t have to fuck him,” I thought.

My freaky angel must have heard my prayer. My “client” really wasn’t into being penetrated and just want to rub against me until he came.

So I lay back with my eyes half closed and thought sexy thoughts. Of lovers past. Of my favorite scenes from porno movies. Of Morgan’s lips kissing the back of my neck.

And my dick got hard and the client grinded and grinded against me, my dick between his legs.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 11:25 in the morning and I had been there about 20 minutes. About 40 minutes to go. I can do this. Just keep concentrating.

Fortunately he was a quick cummer. His nutt was watery and slick on my stomach. It was 11:30. A half hour had gone by.

But he didn’t want anything else physical of me. He just wanted to talk.

About being a down-low gay man in a marriage of convenience.

Of how proud he was of his four children’s accomplishments and good marriages. About the joys of grandparenthood.

And about a young, dark Jamaican man he had hooked up with and fallen in love with and the heartbreak he felt when the man dropped him after a few months.

The conversation was actually far better than the sex. But it was time to go. It was time to drop the escort persona and just be Immanuel again.

“My time is up,” I said. I lied about having to prepare for another client that day.

“Oh, sure. I would like to see you again. I come back to the area on business a few times a year.”

“Sure, you have my number. Just send a text.”

My mouth formed those words but I really didn’t want to do it again.

He gave me a crisp $100 bill, a $20 bill and a five. I folded them once and tucked them into my wallet, said goodbye, and left.

When I got home I took the money out and looked at it. It was early Sunday afternoon at the end of winter and very quiet.

“So this is what my sex is worth,” I thought, looking at the bills. It didn’t seem like much at all.

For weeks I didn’t spend the money. I kept it in a drawer. And then one day I wanted to buy something or the other and I remembered I had it.

I spent it much more quickly than it took to earn it.

The Postman Always Cums Once

Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

Now that I’m single again I’m discovering hookup technology has changed.

Adam4Adam is passe. Manhunt is a relic. Mobile phones are on the rise and aps like Jackd and Grindr are in.

So I signed up for a Jackd account on my Droid. To be honest it made me feel like something of a relic myself.

Most of the guys on there are young 20-somethings. Ripped abs. No body fat. I mean, I look good for a guy in my 40s but not that good.

So I mostly use it to sit back and observe. But still guys hit me up. A few weeks ago one was very insistent.

“Hey, Pa, I’m right around the corner. I want some of that big dick.”

“Well, I’m not really looking.”

“Look, I just want to suck that dick.”

This dude was just 25 years old. What did we have in common? But it was a cold night and a warm mouth around my dick sounded tempting.

“Okay, come over.”

Less than 10 minutes later he was there. Jackd wasn’t lying. He was just 1.8 miles away.

He was a little more feminine than I liked but when he pulled off his clothes it was all good. Tight, lean body the color of apricots in caramel sauce. And a blond streak dyed right down the middle of his faux hawk.

I lit a candle, turned off the lights and invited him into my bed. And he jumped on the dick.

But his dick sucking technique left a little to be desired. His lips gripped my dick too softly. His mouth too wet. Boring.

It made me remember why I don’t mess with young boys. Many of them are pretty on the outside but aren’t really that adept at sex.

So I flipped him over and started eating his muscled ass, which looked like two ripe cantaloupes. Wiry, kinky hair covered the crack of his ass and all around his asshole — just the way I like it.

And his ass tasted good too. It had a slight nutty flavor.

“Ooh, Daddy, eat that ass. Shit that fills god.”

I slurped, licked, lapped and nibbled. He was getting more turned on. And frankly so was I.

I know he said he only wanted to suck dick but…

I got up, quickly slipped on a condom, lubed up and thrusted deep. Once. Twice. Three times.

And that was it. “Oooh, nigga I’m cumming.”

His nutt was pearly in the candlelight.

He had to dress quickly and go. Something about picking up his kid sister from cheerleading practice.

“Hey, you really did get over here fast,” I said.

“Dude, I work for the Postal Service. I deliver mail in this neighborhood. I just got off my route.”

And then I really took a good look at him. He was wearing the grayish blue U.S. Postal Service pants and the uniform shirt under his parka.

I looked at his feet. He was wearing those thick-soled shoes postmen wear that look like a cross between boots and high topped tennis shoes.

Damn. I just fucked my mailman.