CONFESSIONS OF A RURAL STATE WHORE
Author's Note: Special thanks for Gary and Terry for their suggestions and proof-reading. Any inconsistencies, spelling errors, typos, or grammatical mistakes are therefore their fault.
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CHAPTER 8
THE GEEZER GROPEFEST
By this point, I had been prostituting myself for more than 10 years, and I had been doing quite well for myself. I never saw it as my primary source of income, especially since I now had a "regular job" that paid well and enabled me to travel to neighboring states (hotels and travel costs paid for by the company I worked for).
By requiring me to travel and paying for it, my employer had inadvertently expanded my personal base of operations. The larger cities always had men looking to pay a fresh face for a roll in the hay, and I was never in any city for more than a couple of weeks at a time. Even though I had more than a decade's worth of experience as a male prostitute, I had no intention of stopping my "night job." I was in my early 30s, getting paid for getting laid, and still loving it as much as I ever had.
There continued to be occasional engagements that were not primarily about sex. Sometimes a "out-of-town businessman" just wanted to go out for drinks with a stranger and complain about his wife, his boss, or anything else "back home." Sometimes a pretty face - and I did still have a pretty face - was required to try to make a recent ex-boyfriend jealous (as had happened years before with Brad). Sometimes you passed appetizers and cocktails in a skimpy outfit.
I was going to be in Bridgeport, Connecticut for a week for my "day job," so I made online postings advertising my availability. Bridgeport was never a particularly active place for me, but this time there was a nibble that caught my eye. It promised to be well-paying, and no sex was involved.
A man named Roger was throwing a 65th birthday party for his partner. He had arranged for a bartender and caterer to mix martinis and create hors d'oeuvres. He was looking for someone to pass through the crowd of invited guests wearing nothing but a jockstrap to serve the drinks and food. This, of course was something the caterer refused to ask his usual staff to do.
The guests were exclusively older men (close in age to the birthday boy and older), and it was to be made clear that I was there only as eye-candy and to pass the drinks and food. The guests were allowed to look, but not to touch. I was offered $300 for about 3 hours of doing this, but I negotiated up to $550 plus any tips that I received.
My body was still in good shape at 33. My day job had me climbing several flights of stairs on a regular basis, so my legs and butt were still toned and firm. The exercise also kept me trim, and my face was still smooth and young-looking. I was not quite as lithe as I was when I had started whoring more than a decade ago, but I was well-proportioned with pale, unfreckled skin.
That night, I checked my costume in the mirror in my hotel room. A new Calvin Klein jock strap framed my buttocks delightfully. The pouch in the front was also well-filled. With a confident grin, I slid on a pair of jeans and left to drive to the job site.
When I arrived, I was ushered into the kitchen by Roger, the host. I was first introduced to Daniel the bartender, who was about 40 years old, shirtless, and with pecs and nipples that just begged to be chewed on. His chest hair was neatly trimmed and even, and he had matching trimmed scruff on his chin and cheeks. He stood next to several tall glass pitchers, bags of ice, bottles of gin and vermouth, and containers of green olives on toothpicks. He winked one of his green eyes as he smiled warmly and continued with his preparations.
Charlie the caterer was a 50-ish man and was more formally (and more completely) dressed, wearing a white chef's jacket. He gave off an almost military vibe. He would occasionally steal glances at the half-naked bartender and roll his eyes slightly while muttering and shaking his head. He clearly disapproved of the mildly sexualized nature of the event. I smiled inwardly, wondering what his reaction would be when he saw how I was going to be dressed.
I was taken by Roger to a bedroom where I would be able to store my clothes. I stripped down, double-checking that my jockstrap was showing me off to my best advantage. After a couple of minor adjustments to the straps, I returned to the kitchen.
The caterer looked at me in disbelief and visibly blanched. I got the feeling that he was imagining his own staff passing the nibbles and sips in similar costumes. The bartender, however, took one long gander at me and burst into a good-hearted laugh.
"Nice look," he said between chuckles. Addressing the caterer, he commented, "And you thought I was underdressed for this party, eh, Charlie?"
The caterer gave a disapproving grunt and murmured several words under his breath that I did not catch. The two obviously were at least familiar with each other.
I grinned and offered my assistance to either of them while we waited for the first guests to arrive. I had worked briefly in restaurants and catering before, so I knew the amount of prep work that can go into even a small gathering. I pitched in where requested.
The first guests began to arrive. Approximately 20 were expected, so I began placing some freshly-made and chilled martinis on a tray and began offering them to the guests. As anticipated, most of the guests appeared to be noticeably older than the 65-year-old birthday boy. I groaned inwardly at this, but a job was a job and I had accepted it. Professional courtesy and my pride demanded that I follow through.
For the next several minutes, guests arrived, and I brought fresh drinks to them. After a while, I also began passing the appetizers, making a loop through the room. Several people snickered disapprovingly at me as I did my job, but I figured I could take that kind of snobbery. It would take more than a couple of hours with bunch of limp-dicked old men expressing mild disapproval to darken my mood.
Martini refills were served from a pitcher. I questioned the bartender about this, as I had thought that the drinks were traditionally shaken individually.
"Shaking's not the best way to do it," the bartender explained. "Shaking melts more of the ice than stirring does because there is more violent action, and the shaker is absorbing heat from your hands. All you really end up with is a drink that's watered down. Stirring keeps the ice in bigger pieces, too, so it's easier to strain."
"Besides," he continued, flexing his right pec at me and giving me a wink, "I don't think my arms would be able to keep up using a shaker. These guys are drinking them down way too fast."
As the third pitcher of martinis were served, the night started to take a turn for the worse. The guests were not eating much of the food, but they were drinking a lot of gin. Accordingly, they started getting very drunk. Conversations became louder, gestures became broader, and people stopped trying to be discrete in their comments.
"What was Roger thinking?" said one guest pointedly as I passed by with a tray. "This guy just doesn't belong. Sure, he's cute, but why isn't he dressed?"
"Gutter trash," sniffed another.
"Probably a meth head."
These comments were beginning to irk me, but I had been hired to do a job. I tried to locate the man who hired me to ask whether he still thought that me being mostly-naked was the best choice, but I had no success finding him. Roger seemed to have disappeared, so far as I could tell. With no instructions to the contrary, I decided to power through the snootiness as best I could.
Both the caterer and the bartender noticed my mood beginning to darken each time I came in to exchange my tray or pitcher for a fresh one. Even the caterer who had obviously not approved of my being only in a jockstrap expressed sympathy.
"I've heard some of those snide remarks," he said to me quietly. "If they said something like that to any of my staff, I'd start packing up and leave. Fuck Roger and his snobby friends."
"Amen to that," said the bartender in agreement.
Things didn't start getting out of control until I was pouring the next pitcher of martinis into the guest's glasses. As I was filling a glass from a half-full pitcher, I felt a finger reach into the back strap of my garment, pull back, and release. The waistband snapped against my lower back painfully. A mirthful giggle arose from the crowd while I spun around to stare accusingly to those behind me, searching for the most guilty-looking face.
"Knock it off," I said firmly.
"Fuck you, whore," came a response from the back of the room.
"I'm a waiter, not your whore" I said indignantly, my anger beginning to simmer. "Your host is paying me good money to serve you old fogies. It wasn't my idea to be dressed like this, it was his. Enjoy the view, get your arthritic little thrill, but keep your hands to yourself."
The kitchen was silent when I entered it again. Both the shirtless bartender and the caterer stared at me. They had heard the change in mood from the other room, even if they couldn't make out any particular words. "What happened?" questioned the bartender.
"Someone got a little handsy, but I think I handled it," I said as professionally as I could. "But maybe we should let them get a little thirsty or maybe switch them to water. I think the booze is starting to affect them a little too much, and not in a good way."
"More food," said the caterer, placing puff-pastry bites on a tray as fast as he could. "More carbs. It should help them handle what's already in their systems after a few minutes."
"Ugh," I sighed. "That means I'll have to go back out there, doesn't it?"
"Do you want me to take it?" asked the bartender.
"No," I said. "I can do this. Just give me a couple of minutes to get myself under control." Taking a deep cleansing breath, I tried to center myself before I continued. "Do either of you have idea where our host is? I haven't seen much of him since this thing got started, and I need him to take control of his guests."
Neither had any idea where Roger was. He had not been checking in on "the staff," and we had no way of easily tracking him down.
Taking the tray loaded with canapes, I took a breath and went out to face the aged horde again. As I offered the food to the nearest people, a wrinkled hand stroked my thigh from behind. I kicked backwards to dislodge it and moved through the crowd.
More hands reached out to pop my jockstrap. Apparently, they had decided that was acceptable since someone else had already done it even though I had strongly voiced an objection. I swatted as best I could at hands that were reaching towards me and not the food. After a few moments of struggling through the crowd, a 60-something year old man strode boldly up to me and cupped his hand into the pouch holding my penis.
I gasped, shocked, and stepped backwards away from this brazen assault. My ass cheeks were immediately cupped by two different hands, and a finger tried to probe in between my cheeks. Another hand reached for my crotch, trying to claw its way inside my underwear. Lecherous old men assaulted my person from multiple directions at once.
"That is it!" I hollered. I dumped the remaining food onto the floor and began using the tray as both a weapon and a shield, striking at the hands that were groping at me. They seemed to be coming from all sides. The tray was a cheap thin piece of aluminum that folded and warped easily, but it made a lot of noise as I flailed at the aggressors.
I looked around wildly for a more substantial weapon with which I could defend myself. I could throw a punch if I needed to, but something to swing would give me a little more room to maneuver and retreat. I needed to get out of that crowd of drunken, horny, old men who had lost control of themselves.
I had always been able to defend myself. I preferred not to physically fight unless there was no other option, but I was perfectly willing to fight dirty if that's what it took. I had no reservations in punching men more than twice my age in the throat, kicking them in the balls, gouging at their eyes, or anything else I could do try to even the odds. If it cost them some broken hips, so be it, but I was going to be free and safe. I didn't care how many of them had to be physically hurt in the process.
The formerly-disapproving caterer prevented all of this. Upon hearing the commotion, he had come into the room to investigate. For a moment, he stood there, not believing what he was seeing. Then he seemed to swell in anger and umbrage. His face turned a violent shade of red, he bellowed in a voice louder than one would have believed.
"Roger, get your flabby ass out here on the double or I will kick it up between your shoulder blades!"
At these words, action froze in the room where I was all but panicking. One of the leg straps of my jock had been ripped apart, and my balls were hanging out of the pouch that has been pulled aside. The various men who had moments ago been physically pulling at me lowered their hands slowly. It was almost as if a spell had been broken, even though these letches had been acting of their own free will.
The host appeared, but I don't know from where. He looked confused. The caterer, his face so red that it was almost purple, grabbed Roger roughly by the arm. "Kitchen. Now." He pushed Roger towards the kitchen before turning to face me and the guests.
I was still in a tense defensive posture, ready to fight my way through if needed. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and the brief break in action had given me a chance to better evaluate my attackers and try to improvise a plan to escape the room. I was prepared to inflict as much damage as might be necessary to person and property to get away.
The caterer locked onto my eyes with his. Something about his gaze held me in place, staring back at him. "Daniel," he called with authority in his voice. "You're needed."
The shirtless bartender quickly appeared at the caterer's side. "What's wrong, Charlie?" he asked before visibly pausing. He looked at the scene before him, and an appalled look crossed his face. The caterer muttered a few words under his breath, and Daniel nodded briefly and confidently. He threaded his way through the stupefied old men. The sight of another shirtless man working their way through them seemed to stir their appetites again, but no one made any overt moves.
He reached me and held out a confident hand. I did not believe for a minute that Daniel meant me any harm (unlike the others in the room), but I was not ready to give up my position because I did not feel safe enough to do so. "Let's go," he said simply and quietly. "Let's get you out of here."
I'm not entirely sure that my brain registered the meaning of those words or not, but I did not move. My muscles remained taut and ready to fight.
Daniel slowly reached out and touched my elbow. I recognized that he was not one of the threats in the room, and I allowed it. Slowly, he exerted a little pressure to urge me to give up my position. "I need to get you some place safe," he said lowly.
"Safe" was the word I needed to hear. While still looking around sharply, I let him lead me through the throng of men who had moments ago been reaching, clutching, and grabbing at me. Occasionally, a wrinkled hand would reach towards me again, but a sharp hiss from Daniel kept them at bay.
I was led through the back bedroom where I had undressed and into an attached bathroom. The bartender closed the lid to the toilet seat and gently guided me to sit on it. It wasn't until then that I realized that I was bleeding from several scratches on my legs. "What the fuck?" I questioned as I saw the state of my jockstrap and skin.
The bartender was already rummaging, opening drawers and cabinets, looking for rubbing alcohol or hydrogen peroxide to try to clean the scratches. "What in the actual fuck," he parroted. "All you were doing was giving them food."
He found what he needed and cleaned my wounds. They were all superficial, but my jockstrap was a total loss. Daniel did his best to avoid looking directly at my dangling bits, but only to a limited success. He tried to be a gentleman, but anyone is going to steal a couple of glances at an exposed dick when you're cleaning blood off of someone's inner thigh.
"Never again," I muttered. "I'm done."
"I can't blame you for that," said Daniel, assuming I was talking only about serving food and drinks. "Once you're cleaned up, I'll help you get dressed and you can get out of here. Those old guys are acting crazy."
"Not just that," I said. "I'm done taking money for things like this."
"You do a lot of free-lance serving?" asked Daniel, slightly bemused.
"In a way," I said, cutting to the chase. "Look, I'm a prostitute, among other things. Or, at least, I was. No more."
"Wait. You mean that Roger hired--"
"A hooker. Who else do you think would walk around mostly naked just to pass hors d'oeuvres at a party? I don't know of any underwear models in Bridgeport, do you? I was in town and Roger got in touch with me." Daniel looked ill at ease, obviously uncomfortable with this new information. "But I've never experienced anything like this before, and I never am putting myself in that position again. I'm going off the game. I'm done."
"You mean you're giving that up because of tonight?"
"That's the plan."
Daniel looked thoughtful for a moment. "So you're not from here? Only you said you were `in town?'"
"No. I come to Connecticut all the time for my regular job, but I live up in Maine."
"How long are you here?"
"I leave Friday afternoon to drive back."
He seemed to come to an internal decision. "Has Roger paid you, yet?"
"No, and I'm not sure he's going to after all this. And I'm not sure I'd want to stick around even if he was going to."
"Let me and Charlie work on him about that. Get dressed and wait here until I get back." With that, he stood, turned, and left the bathroom. I heard the door to the bedroom open and close behind him.
I figured that getting dressed like Daniel suggested was the right thing to do. I was also confident that giving up this job both for tonight and forever was the correct decision. While the money was nice, I didn't actually need the extra income to get by.
I went into the bedroom and found my jeans and shirt where I had left them. I removed the remnants of my jockstrap; it wasn't going to do me much good in this state. Then I slipped on the rest of my clothes and sat on the bed to wait.
Daniel appeared a few minutes later, with a single $100 bill in his hand. "Look, I know this probably isn't what you were promised, but Charlie and I need to take some time to convince Roger that having him and his friends arrested for sexual assault and attempted rape tonight isn't the best way to celebrate his partner's birthday." He pointed to the back of the bill, which had handwriting on it. "This is part of my pay, and that's my home address. Go there Thursday night at about 8 o'clock, and I'll have the rest of your money."
"I don't knowÑ" I began.
"Charlie and I are packing up our shit and getting out of here, too. There's no way we want to be associated with what almost went down. Charlie's also having a word with Roger about getting all of our money and maybe a little collection or something from those old perverts to try to make up for what almost happened to you in there." Daniel put his hand on my arm. "Give the two of us a chance to try to make it a little better, O.K.?"
I was mentally and physically exhausted in the aftermath of my adrenaline rush, and I was in no mood to argue. "Fine," I said. "I'll try to make it on Thursday. No promises, though."
I stood unsteadily and took the bill from Daniel. Folding it, I put it into my pocket. I made my way carefully back towards the front door to leave. As I passed the entrance to the room where the group of drunken guests were congregated, I paused and turned to face them.
"Excuse me," I said in a loud voice. Most of the faces turned to me with a look of disapproval. "I want all of you to know that I expect you to burn in hell for what you tried to do to me tonight. I'm looking forward to giving evidence in the assault trials for each of you." I then turned my back to the room, found the front door, and left.
I did not, in fact, call the police that night, though I had every right to file a complaint.
I made my way to my car and sat in it, collecting my thoughts and watching the entrance. Soon, old men began filtering out. Apparently, my mentioning assault and criminal trials may have made it through the gin-induced haze that had filled their brains. The party was breaking up. I let most of them leave before starting my car and driving to my hotel.
After I got about a mile down the road, I saw police cars had set up a field sobriety checkpoint. I smiled sarcastically, knowing that most of the people who had just left the party would be caught in this. Given the number of martinis that had been poured, at least some of them were likely to be ticketed or arrested for drunk driving.
I pulled up to the checkpoint and stopped where indicated. A police officer came to my window, which I rolled down. "License and registration," he intoned. "Where are you headed tonight?"
"My hotel," I responded. "I'm in town for business and just drove down from Maine." I handed him my license and began to lean over to my glove compartment to get my vehicle registration.
The officer took a glance and saw that it was an out-of-state license. "No need for the registration," he said. I supposed that he was ushering people through so that things didn't get too backed up on the streets. He handed my license back to me. "Have a good night."
"Thanks, officer," I said as I rolled the window back up.
Suddenly, I felt a tiny bit better about the way the night had ended. With a little luck, some of the nasty old fucks that had attacked me might end up with a ticket or even a night in jail for driving while intoxicated. There was even still a small chance I could get the money that had been promised to me, although I wasn't counting on that. All I had to do was wait for Thursday evening.