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The Secret Life of a Call Boy.
The first thing you should know about me is that I’m a whore. Escort, hooker, prostitute, whore; it doesn’t matter what you call me, it’s just semantics and you should know that this is very far removed from the plan I had for my life. In another lifetime I used to be called Punk but that was before my unwilling need to change professions. Now I go by Phil. While most prostitutes go by fake names, I had never really been called by my first name in my life so it seemed fitting that I would be using it now.
I had always wanted to be a professional wrestler. It was the only ambition I ever had. I was wrestling in IWA Mid-South and was beginning to get bookings in Ring of Honor until one day when everything went so very wrong. It was a match like any other, a leap to the top rope like I had done so many times before except this time I slipped, somersaulting backwards, slamming my knee onto the steel steps. I tore my MCL, ACL and shattered my patella. I would be able to recover from even a combination of two of these injuries but all three and it spelled the end of my wrestling career.
I was devastated to have my dream ripped away, lost without any plan for my future. I lived a nomadic existence, drifting from one crummy job to another. What I had dreamed of most was to end up in the WWE, the epicenter of pro wrestling in America. Once I had attained one of those hard won roster spots I was sure that with my talent in the ring and on the microphone I would be able to make the most of the spot I had earned. To even have a chance to be called up to the WWE my reputation needed to be spotless. Besides some teenage shenanigans and a tendency to be a little self-centered there was nothing other than my skills to judge me on. If they knew the truth, that I was gay, it would have reduced my chances to zero. The only freedom my injury had granted me was the one to own my sexuality. Now I could date a man, hold his hand in public without fear of repercussions. The funny thing was that I was doing none of those things. Just as I never stayed in one job too long I also never stayed in relationships for very long. Who am I kidding? Unless you can call a one night stand a relationship then my relationship count was miniscule. And that’s when I had the one night stand that changed my life.
It was like any other night in the club, drinks were flowing, drugs were plentiful and the men were easy. All I ever took advantage of was the latter. Somehow after everything that had happened I still remained committed to my straight edge lifestyle. I could have taken a drink or popped a pill and had some respite from the hell that my life had become but I didn’t. The want, take, have theory of hookups in the club was what reigned, but what was different that night was that instead of being picked up like any other night, that night I would say that I was being admired from afar. Every move I made he followed with his eyes, never letting me stray far from his gaze. It was a change from the norm and I can’t lie and say I wasn’t intrigued. When I finally approached him he merely took my hand in his and led me out of the club into a waiting car. Most sexual transactions were likely to occur in the backroom of the club or the adjacent alley, not in a chauffeured luxury car.
I was amazed when we arrived at Peninsula hotel. It was one of the most high-priced hotels in Chicago. With my baggy jeans, sneakers and t-shirt I stood out, and not in a good way, but the hotel manager just nodded as we walked past him, as if I wasn’t polluting the air of his hotel just by existing. We rode the elevator up to his room, or should I say his floor. The room was luxurious. This wasn‘t something that usually impressed me but I could recognize that this was a experience I was not likely ever to have again so I let myself enjoy the room service, the high pressured showers and the soft bed. I wouldn’t call what happened that night making love but it was far from the fast fucks that I was accustomed to.
His name was Pierre. He had a sexy French accent with looks to match. It was the morning after that began the departure from my usual reality. I woke to find myself alone in his fancy hotel room. All of his luggage was gone. The only thing left behind was an envelope left on the bedside table that bore my legal first name even though I was positive that I had not given him that information. Inside was hotel stationary that merely said, “Thanks for a great night.” What knocked me back on my heels was the $1,500 in cash accompanying the note. I couldn’t hold down a minimum wage job but had just made $1,500 in one night performing an act that I usually gave away for free. I found that it didn’t really bother me that I had basically sold myself for money unknowingly. I had left behind the straight edge tenet of not participating in promiscuous sex a long time ago. I was currently working the night shift at a 7-Eleven for minimum wage and the kind of money I was currently holding in my hand was more money that I would see in months.
When I flipped the page over there was a phone number with a Chicago area code. I really didn’t want to return the money but it seemed like the right thing to do. I called the number and was taken aback when a female answered the phone.
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