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I was in my thirties, the first time I seriously thought about accepting money for sex. I was working as a massage therapist and one of the other therapists — a girl called Jenny — was an escort. She was fairly open about it and she thought I could get involved, too.
At first, her recommendation was on the strength of my looks — which was pretty flattering. Whilst some people consider me handsome, I’ve never been egotistical about it. I’m fully aware that plenty of other people have a very different opinion and some have even let it be known that they think I’m pretty unattractive. This is the sort of thing that can keep a person grounded.
But then Jenny saw my cock and she got a lot more enthusiastic. Turns out I’m fairly hung. I’d always thought that I might be a bit bigger than average, but I’d never been sure. I hadn’t had many previous girlfriends, and I’d always wondered if they’d just been flattering my ego.
Jenny, though… Jenny told Nancy — a mutual friend — and word filtered back. A week later, Nancy relayed everything that was said. It had been complete unbridled enthusiasm. I told Nancy I was thinking about accepting Jenny’s suggestion and she encouraged me to go for it.
And so, Jenny made a couple of calls and one day, I found myself on a train to Glasgow, to meet somebody. I was never clear on the relationship this person had with Jenny. At first, I thought he was her boss. Her pimp, perhaps? Her pornographer? Her dealer? I had no idea. I had lots of questions, but I didn’t feel like I had the ability to frame any of them. I just went along with what was suggested.
Things started going wrong straight away. It was a Sunday morning and the trains weren't running. I didn't want to give a bad impression by being late, so I shelled out £50 to catch a taxi. As I was on my way into town, I got a bunch of messages. This dude — Cedric — was running late and wanted to keep me updated on his progress.
Cedric changed the meeting point three times. I wandered through Central Station, reading and responding to vaguely comprehensible text messages and updates. Eventually, Cedric told me to step outside onto the main road where he would pick me up. By this point, he was so late that our time had run short. We were going to have to cram everything in quickly.
I did as I was told and he drove around for a while, eventually finding a car park that felt secluded enough for him. He told me to whip it out right there, in the passenger seat of his car. This was not the job interview — audition? — that I was expecting, but I was off balance and so I kept doing whatever I was told to do.
Cedric looked really hungry. He stared across at my cock and his eyes went shiny. He reached out and grabbed it. He started asking questions as he felt it up:
How big does it get?
Does it get any harder than this?
What do the girls say when they see it?
I answered the questions as best I could. That last one, though… It felt stupid and weird and inexplicably invasive. I struggled to think of an answer. Now that I think back to that day, I genuinely can’t remember what I said.
And, I’ve got a Prince Albert. This caught Cedric’s attention. It also required inane discussion and predictable questions:
Did that hurt?
Can you feel it when you have sex?
What do the girls say when they see that?
Again, he was curious about the kind of reactions I got from “the girls”.
Now, I’ve got autism. I probably should have mentioned this earlier, because it’s always kind of relevant — no matter what kind of situation I find myself in. But this was a few months before I learned I had it, and it was a couple of years before I got diagnosed. At that point in my life, I’d long since accepted I was a bit weird, but didn’t really know why. And so, I spent great effort masking the confusion I generally had about things.
So, when a stranger drives me to a strange place, gets me to whip my cock out, grabs it, and starts bombarding me with questions... All I thought was to go along with it. I thought I might get work out of this. I didn't want to rock the boat. I didn't stop to think about whether I actually wanted the work, if this was typical of what that work might look like.
It also didn't cross my mind that Cedric’s behaviour was predatory. He had been on a massive power trip from the beginning. He’d been asserting authority at every stage, not bothering to ask me for any kind of consent; just indulging himself in whatever he fancied.
And so, when he reached into the glove compartment of his car, grabbed a baby-wipe, gave my bell-end a quick wipe and then leaned forward to take it in his mouth — all actions performed smoothly and in the space of about three seconds — it just felt like one more startling development. I barely had enough time to wonder whether it was a step too far for me, before it was over.
Cedric gave me £80, dropped me back at Central Station and took off. I assumed I’d passed the audition and went home. Thankfully, the trains had started running and I was £30 richer.
As I waited for other work offers to come in, I thought about whether I was cut out for this. I talked to Nancy about everything. We made a lot of jokes to drown the more traumatic details. In Scotland, unhealthy coping mechanisms and a tasteless sense of humour can play very well together.
I failed to be flooded with job offers. This wasn’t a surprise because the interview hadn't exactly dazzled me with its professionalism. And, if it was representative of the kind of work I might expect, then I was not really sure I wanted it. But I figured I could decide on that later — if a decision actually became necessary.
Some months later, I heard from Cedric again. This time, though, I had a clearer idea of what to expect. I thought I’d be able to handle his power games better. There was no pretence at an interview — he just wanted to see and play with my cock. He told me that he wasn't sure where we could go and asked me if I had any suggestions.
At that point, I was renting a flat in Glasgow. I knew he knew about it because we were both still in touch with Jenny. There were a couple of messages back and forth. He didn’t suggest my flat, but he kept reframing his request for suggestions and referencing his lack of options for anywhere we could go. Eventually, it felt like my own options had been chipped away. I agreed to let him come to my place.
Later, when I went back over this second batch of messages, I realised that there was never a point where I had formally agreed to see Cedric. He got in touch with his request, we went back-and-forth about the location and — at some point — he started talking like the agreement had been settled. Somehow, there came a point where not offering my home had felt evasive and obstructive.
It was cool, though. I figured I knew what to expect from this second encounter. I had mentally prepared myself. It was going to be easy and there would be no unexpected train fare, so all the money would be mine. It was close to Christmas, so I really needed the money.
The second encounter was still not great... Cedric walked in and set the tone straight away. He bombarded me with the exact same questions as on our previous encounter, dropped to his knees, sucked me for a few seconds, stood up, wanked a bit, grabbed my hand and put it on his cock, took it back, wanked just a bit more, came, and got dressed. Then he gave me £30 and told me that was the going rate for what just happened.
He texted me again a few months later. This time, I decided to negotiate a fee in advance. I knew what to expect and I’d decided that £80 — the amount he gave me the first time — was reasonable. I figured I didn’t like Cedric; he made me uncomfortable. If I could get this minimum amount, it would make it worth my time. I got a reply within minutes:
Nice try, goodbye.
That was it. I never heard from Cedric again.
I decided to get more proactive. I found a website for sex workers of different types and I made myself a profile. I don’t remember all the details, but I referenced being a trained massage therapist and I made some vague, new-age allusion to Tantric therapy. With coded language, I promised massage and happy endings, but dressed it up as something more exotic.
I got one client out of it. We exchanged a couple of emails in which we carefully and indirectly covered all the necessary points. I went to his hotel room. I sat down with him, and — still catering to the thin veneer of professionalism — we had a consultation. Without needing to hide behind innuendo, we spoke plainly about what would happen.
And so, I had my first experience of being a sex worker where I actually felt comfortable with what I was doing. We both got naked and I gave him a massage — much slower and more sensual than any I would give therapeutically. I made sure to tease him, at first, with some “accidental” nudges to his balls. Just some feather-light finger-brushes at first, which could have meant nothing at all, but which gradually became bolder and clearer.
When he rolled over, the massage assumed a more therapeutic air; fit for awhile, at least. I watched my client's cock rise and fall as I kept him guessing. I deliberately glided my fingertips across his abdomen, close enough to almost touch between his legs, before moving away. I made sure that he was mostly soft whenever I actually brushed against his cock.
Before that day, I had only ever touched two cocks in my entire life: my own, and then Cedric’s. When I had my client’s cock in my hand, I felt properly confident with what I was doing, and — crucially — I felt like I was setting the pace this time. I could take it easy. This was, after all, meant to be some generalised and co-opted concept of Tantra — which implied a certain degree of sensuality.
It still felt a bit weird, though. My own cock had been the defining standard, size and shape over the years. My hand and cock have become perfectly shaped to each other. This cock curved differently and I wasn’t entirely sure how to grip it, but I took my time and I found a way. When I finally got him to cum all over his stomach, it was with a quiet sense of detached satisfaction.
Despite everything, at that point I still considered myself to be straight. I hadn’t taken any real sense of pleasure from what I was doing beyond a general sense of satisfaction from making somebody else feel good. It had occurred to me that, under the right circumstances, I might swing both ways, but that was still a pretty theoretical concept to me.
A few months later, I was involved in a car crash. I had a near-death experience that left me with a damaged shoulder and prematurely ended my career as a professional massage therapist. Suddenly, I had absolutely nothing to do; there was a vacuum in my life that, for a variety of reasons, had been almost completely devoted to massage. I was left without direction or ambition. I was lost.
Art changed this. I got an iPhone and used it to take pictures — lots of pictures. I started using a copy of Photoshop to edit and post those pictures online. Some of those early pictures were absolutely terrible — completely lacking in any kind of artistic merit, at all. But I got better. I even started getting some flattery and praise from other artists.
I began to learn more about my own kinks and sexuality and filtered those into my work. I looked at other fetish artists and couldn’t see a lot of pictures that I actually liked... So, I tried to create that kind of picture, instead. I realised that my artistic tastes covered a lot of ground, but I kept coming back to power-play themes. Male chastity and CBT are two areas I struggle with because it can be tricky to represent either of them directly, without them becoming relentlessly cock-focused. I’ve still managed to find my ways. In the process, I became compulsively creative. That part of my head never fully switches off.
About ten years ago I started running hen parties. These take the form of art classes, but the women who hire me don’t come to learn anything; they come for the clothed-female-naked-male (CFNM) element, with some banter and innuendo.
In the last few years, I’ve also made a couple of friends who are professional Dominatrixes. I took one of my Domme friends along to a hen’s party and she was impressed at how easy I made it look. Later, she took me to see her client who had cuckold fantasies. I fucked her while he watched. Now I have a minor sideline as an occasional “bull” if a Domme friend has a need for one.
I have a lot of respect for the hard work of my sex worker friends and the commitment they have for their clients. Most of them think that running a hen’s party must be pretty difficult but it doesn’t even compare to what they do.
I still love to help my Dominatrix friends. There are clear lines of communication involved. They tell me what to do and I do it. They let me know what’s expected and I provide it. I turn up, I play a part, I get a massive sexual thrill out of it all.
And then I get paid for it. It's amazing.
Graham is a Scottish writer and a photographer who has had various experiences in the sex industry. He has always been a bit weird and struggled to fit in with other people. After a near-death experience and a diagnosis of autism, Graham stopped trying to follow the rules of society quite so hard. Things didn’t get a lot easier, but at least he knew the reason why he struggled.
Fetish and kink feature a lot in Graham's creative work. His writing is fairly direct, but his photography plays more into a mood or a vibe. There’s always lots of nudity.