I Work It

The post was submitted by "I Work It," who lives and works in the district.

If the client is in character when you arrive, that’s half your battle. I’m not speaking in metaphor. It really is a battle. Try and close a trick who wants you to break him first. You’ll see what I mean. If you’re lucky, your pig is pink and naked when you arrive.

“Lap it up, Sow”!

In the business, this kind of talk is called “Role Play”.

“Listen Piggy, I’m gonna drain myself right into your mouth! If you spill one fucking drop, I’m gonna fry some bacon!”

Most role players, leather folk in particular, know exactly what they want. They also know within the first couple of seconds after answering the door whether or not you can give it to them. Bad first impression, so go your odds. Likely you get sent home. If you’re lucky, you get a cancellation fee. A professional doesn’t fuck up first Impressions.

With one-hand I clear the ugly Holiday Inn bedspread from the mattress. It’s knotted up in a corner across the room next to the bathroom door. There are clothes strewn about the room. A pig has been ordered to take a position on the floor. He’s under the bedspread now because he’s scared, his fat ass peeking out from under the blanket while he wedges his head into the corner of the room. It waits while I remove my suit and place it on a hanger the pig is ordered to have waiting for me. I take my time, even though he only gets an hour. This is a scene. I get paid to do this.

There are condensation rings on the particle board dining table where I’ve taken an assortment of beverages from my tool kit and placed them on display. I call to the sow, then motion for him to crawl over so he can take a look. These are the fine beverages he’ll be partaking of:

V-8.
Coke.
Water. Sparkling.
Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Coffee.
And of course, Cranberry Juice Cocktail.

Unfortunately, he’s just a pig so they’ve got to pass through my bladder first. I tell him to squeal. I scream.

The Sow is crucified on the bed. He’s lying on top of the white bedspread, his hair and face wet from my piss. He’s a happy pig because he knows what he wants. Because I’m a professional, I know how to give him what he wants. In this business, being bashful rarely gets you what you want, regardless of which side you’re on.

I’m straddling the pig, glaring down at him with what contempt I can muster. He’s breathing heavy. He’s counting on me.

I’m thinking of scattering roaches, Internet pop-up ads, child abusers with their hands in the cookie jar.

This is called method acting. You tap into what you want to feel based on visceral associations. I know this from the time I worked Los Angeles. I learned it from an actor I fisted him because his last movie flopped. Don’t try to understand.

Cancer. The Exxon Valdez. Entitlement. Dying alone.

Piggy has difficulty following the stream. This is unforgivable. Of course, I can’t help but think about what Pacino would do.

“You want more, you fat sow? Look at you, you’ve got it all over yourself!”

This isn’t piggy’s fault. I gave my dick carte blanche to spray the sow in a random pattern across it’s face and neck, spot staining the linen pillowcase the sow’s fat head rests on. Piggy’s bifocals are so glazed with urine and sweat, I can’t see the gray hues that usually peer from behind them.

I’m thinking of every time I’ve seen someone let their dog shit on a sidewalk.

This is the sixth meeting between us, all at the same Holiday Inn. The same room even-it’s not so hard to arrange. It was obvious by now that the Pig likes rutting in the same pen. He tells me, “Yes, sir, I’m a bad piggy.”

He’s so excited.

He tells me that he wants more. I tell myself that I’ll never do another piss call. This time, I tell myself, I really mean it. His face is so earnest. Fuck me if I don’t want to laugh right now.

Pat Robertson. Bicycle Thieves. Fox news channel. Kids who rap on the metro.

Some calls get easier. Some don’t. Most don’t. The thing to remember about keeping a trick a viable source of income is this: keep things interesting. Add another variable. It usually doesn’t need to be much. Pull on their balls while blowing them. Change your underwear. Role-Play. In the case of piss calls, most escorts won’t even do them. Most people just need to show up. It’s in these situations that your work ethic is tested. Me? I make an extra $50 bucks by saving a day’s piss in a Tupperware jug so babe can have it warm and ready for him in the morning. He keeps it in a coke can, right there on his nightstand.

“Drink it up Sow”!

I let another burst of yellow liquid go, splashing into the mouth of the sow lying below. To it’s credit, all of it is accounted for. One more burst.

How many people have pissed in this guy’s mouth before me? It’s teeth, those left, are rotten and yellow. Uric acid has eaten away most of what remains. One tooth stands out in the sow’s mouth, larger and darker, with misshapen edges. I think that this must be the one he uses to chew his food. I relieve the rest of my load on the sow’s smooth chubby face and watch while beads of pee race up his balding head and mingle with his hair. I order him off the bed. Ok, I kick him off the bed, but he likes it.

“Look at the mess you made, sow!”

He’s more agile than usual. I’ve got to readjust my weight on one foot and replant my other into the mattress, balancing myself with stretched arms and bent knees in an attempt to keep from falling off the bed. Piggy, in his eagerness to please, is on the floor and rolling before I can order it to.

“Roll you filthy sow, roll in your own shit!”

The sow’s rotund little body is paving the hotel carpet as if he’s on fire -- back and forth in a quick roll. Quick for his size anyway. He emits well practiced squeals. Pig likes to roll, I think. I introduced this new wrinkle in the last session in an attempt to keep the scene fresh -- a tricky proposition being that the client shows a tendency towards a fixed scene, but once again, professionalism pays off. Next time I might kick him harder. There’s potential here.

I lay a black garbage bag on the carpet, at the foot of the bed.

“Get off the floor, pig”!

The Sow, on all fours now, looks up, confused and flustered, like a dog that got kicked into a swimming pool. “No one treats me as badly as you do!", the sow whimpers. “Why am I such a bad pig?"

“God hates Pork”, I respond. “It’s in the Bible”.

I scream again, wanting the sow to squeal. I coach him to pierce the air, and he does. He squeals. And squeals. And squeals. Winded, sucking in hard breaths to feed the squeal, I stand naked in front of it with a gallon-size ziplock bag that I take from my tool kit. I dump the contents of the bag onto the plastic in front of the sow, close enough for some of the debris to hit piggy in the head. Wafer crackers, mashed potatoes, grapes, a piece of apple, and half a sandwich from lunch. Black Forest Ham. I had piggy in mind. This way, I figure, I can give a little of the pig back to himself.

“Get in their sow! Let me hear you squeal you fucking pork!"

I put my bare foot on the back of his head and press his face down into the slop, gently so not to hurt him, but it isn’t needed. The sow is licking the plastic. His mouth hovers over slop. Wilbur is motivated. Way to go, pig.

I don’t know this man. I never will. But I do know he’s mildly autistic. He spends two weekends a month as a card counter in Atlantic City, and makes men he thinks are his friends very rich. He dresses funny. He smells funny. He calls me when he needs to relax. I don’t know this man. I just piss in his mouth. And I remind him to keep his wallet safe. I’ve only made one doctor’s appointment for him.

The electronic jingle of a cavalry charge emits from my phone, and I think FUCK as I turn to the bureau on my left and reach into the side pocket of my tool kit and grab the mobile. “### #####,” I say, deep and slow, as If I wanted to fuck you since before you were born. Your phone voice is usually your second-line of marketing. Voicemail is your first.

“What’s up daddy?” the voice on the other end replies. I tell him I’m in an appointment. The voice asks me why my fucking cell phone is on. He tells me that’s unprofessional. He knows this because I taught him.

“You’ve got to know this client to understand,” I tell him. The sow looked up when I said this, still chewing on the slop.

“Eat your fucking foliage, you piece of shit sow!”

I hear the voice laugh in my ear when I say this.

“Oh my lord,” the voice says in a distinct southern drawl. “Is that the pig man you’re with? I thought you weren’t going to do any more pee-pee calls.”

“I gotta go”.

He tells me to wait. Says that he needs me tomorrow for a 3-way at the Hinckley Hilton. It’s a client for a transsexual friend of his. I don’t work with trannies. It complicates things.

“It’s not even like that”, he says. It’s her client. She strips and then he jerks off and watches the two of us fuck while she paddles him. 30 minutes, tops. 5 o’clock.

“Money”?

“$100 for each of us. Mags cuts $200.”

I’ll see him at 5.

“I’m going to take a shower," I bark at the pig while hitting the power button on my mobile. “Finish your slop, sow."

I step on the pig’s back and catapult myself over him into the direction of the bathroom. After a few quick steps, I grab the door and stop cold. I call out for piggy but stand paused with my back toward him for several seconds. I call out again, inflected in a tone several octaves above my natural speaking voice. The sow picks his mouth up from the plastic, a bit of lettuce folded into the single thatch of hair on his head, and looks across the room at the exact moment I turn my head to him, allowing Piggy the sight of the most sincere expression I can manage.

“I think I need to go again”, I say, slightly louder than a whisper.

The sow’s eyes pop. Gristle drops to the carpet as the Pig inhales deep, an ecstatic breath of joy through his wide open maw. It’s pure fucking Christmas.

Priceless, I think. I should charge more for this.