I
I don't care if I can't do innocence anymore, the whole thing is stupid and I don't want to do it or talk about it and that's it. I know it happens to everyone and it's something you have to face, but I've heard enough from all the guys who thought I was plenty innocent to know that even if you have to change there are plenty of different ways to do it. And it's funny, but I always thought Carlisle had it on the ball before this.
I mean I know he's been at this for a long time and I know he's got my best interests at heart, and he's thinking of the harem--like Smith says--but he's just blown it...the call I mean. I just hope Smith comes through with something. That's the one nice thing about the old Honorary Eunuch; if Smith or I can come up with something that'll work instead, he'll let me try--at least as long as I don't "bring down the quality." God! That took nerve. Quality my ass! Quality's underneath the innocence or whatever you use, and I wouldn't be here unless I was prime.
Not that the package isn't important. Take away the packages and we're all just nice boys with bad habits. Okay, I'm getting too old for the "I didn't know that was what it was!" routine. Not that I wasn't good; over the last two years I've become one of the best virgins the harem's ever had--even Carlisle said that (though you'd expect him to be complimentary, considering when he said it). And of course you get a better variety when you're set up for hunters (at least that's how they see themselves). You get seducers from all walks, and of course, because they think they've got to finish the job the old H.E. only started, they've got to get you interested in them and that means sooner or later you've got to talk about what they do. And of course since they think you're almost ready but have to be handled carefully (only of course you're not) it's real easy to satisfy them and still not be bored. I've heard from some of the older dears that it's not like when you have to specialize.
My problem is my face, or at least that's what H.E. says is fast becoming my problem. It's not that the old kisser is going to turn men off, it's just that it's going to be perfect for those women--or so says Carlisle. I guess it's flattering--to be too perfect for one thing to waste myself on another--but it's still out of the question. Carlisle can be awfully single-minded at times, so I've just got to have dear Smith arrange for me to meet some of those in-house visitors to get some experience. It won't be the same as getting out into the community of course, but as one of my archaeologist patrons once pointed out, field work is only the beginning.
You can't tell me that my nose is going to be so perfect for women that it's not going to have the same masculine draw for our regulars. The trick of course, is to get a good sampling in before Honorary pressures me again. I have to be able to show him rave reviews or he'll introduce me to Mrs. John Q. saying "give it a try" like it's no big deal. That Carlisle takes a lot for granted.
I've always wanted to do leather, and I'm a little ashamed I am so innocent about that. I mean that's supposed to be part of the job. Smitty keeps us young ones so sheltered! A little bondage wouldn't spoil the naive show, would it? Of course when we got holidays a few of the rest of the virgins and me used to raid the latex and leather wardrobe and try to generate something. But to tell you the truth either the clothes were so good we couldn't wait for the chains and other goodies, or else the damned things were so confusing we were out of the mood by the time we were dressed. Of course Smith is very good at bondage himself: muscular and hairy with arms and thighs just made to ooze out of a gladiator's tunic. The trouble with S&M is that all of your clients turn out to be lawyers and judges and they never want to talk about their work unless they have a whip in their hand. Smith loves to joke with our staff of "happy captives" by cracking his riding crop and shouting "Justice? I'll give you justice!" I honestly don't think it's a specialty I'd want to stay in for long; for me acting can only be so much of the job.
You get a good variety in the Greek racket, and you can work in-house or in the field--and of course there's some innocence involved. It all depends whether you've got some 45-year-old who's turned on by guys sweating and straining their muscles or a younger guy who's into man-boy athletics as foreplay. I could do okay with that sort of thing as long as it wasn't too heavy. I like exercise as much as the next fellow and it's healthy and all that, and I can even see the thrill in it; but sticky sex is tricky sex, as Smith says. It's never been easy for me to change from Spartan youth-in-training to close-order drill convincingly. And god! if I ever have to do it on one of those gym mats I'll lose the customer for sure. If I hear that sound of sticky skin peeling off the mat I just know I'll burst out laughing.
I suppose I'm well-suited for the "pals." Of course they're really just seducers looking for older boys. But it's all above-board with pals; they just like you to pretend you look up to them. I don't mind that; I really do get a kick out of extracurricular education, and I've heard of pals popping for trips to Fiji and Europe and stuff like that. Not that they're like the campers; they're all businessmen who never got summer camp out of their systems and like the challenges of skinny dipping and sleeping bags. Pals are a lot more concerned with the individual; you really can get to know some neat stuff if you play it right--I've seen a bunch of palsy guys as a virgin. You get a lot of GPs and cops as pals--and of course teachers. The trouble is you can't afford to get your head messed up with romance and that's exactly what most of them would like. I've heard a lot of weepy pals crying on Smith or Carlisle trying to see their regulars--and of course it's easy to get all caught up in the game, even when you're a pro.
Straight-shooters are safe as far as that goes, and they're usually in-house, although I've heard you can get some nice weekends. But you have to like politicians, bureaucrats and actors and they can be really demanding--and for god-knows-what reason. I hear quite a bit of bitching from the boys in that closet. "Might as well be a common whore," they say, while Carlisle answers back that there's nothing common about them and if there is, they should pack. But it is sort of petty, I think, and it's all too regular for me. It's like enrolling in Future Bitchy Gigolos of America. Of course that's another thing that bugs me about Carlisle's designs on me.
But the main thing is, you've got to have a very open mind or some kind of drive to switch to dames. It's a whole different kind of seduction. And then what are you? just a toy. Okay, that's not it either--not all of it. The thought of women...older women, sort of gets the muscles in my neck tightening up and my head gives this sudden shake. The same thing happens whenever I remember swallowing castor oil. I mean alright, it's only natural and all that. I remember when I was really new, "heavily into hormones," as one of the other guys put it. I'd see one of the girls, really nice girls, mind you, from the other side of the harem, and I'd get all hot and bothered. Of course the girls of my own gender were already putting that brand of hot-and-bothered to shame. Yes, the female body is a nice thing to look at; yes, a 25-year-old woman dressed just right can give me the same kind of delicious sensation in the pit of my stomach as Smitty in his tunic. But the difference is that if it ain't Smith it's still something I can handle, while if it isn't some receptionist (and for the trade Honorary has picked out for me it won't be) it's somebody's aunt with blue hair, an udder and a Pomeranian named Flu-Flu. It makes me squirm.
But Smith says there's hope. He says that if I just let things blow over, Carlisle
might defer "what's best for my career" in favor of what I want. And anyway,
maybe I'm not going to keep growing that type of face; maybe I'll cross the frontier and
be a man's burgeoning jock. I can't figure out how the H.E. can be so damned sure just by
looking at me. But Smith says he doesn't miss often. Smith says he's the best in the
business and nobody argues with that.
II
It was a mistake. It was a good idea but it was a mistake. Good old Smith was only trying to help and I was tickled, really, but it just sort of backfired. "Babe," he said, "you want to play with the big boys, you still got to flaunt what you've got. And when you stand with the futurestuds, your best asset is being a kid." It was sort of defeating the purpose, me supposed to be a veteran and all--that's what I was supposed to be proving anyway--but you don't argue with Smith about orgies. No, he calls them something else: "Never doubt me about aesthetics, love," he said to me as he was putting on his sandals.
It was a hell of an honor and he did go out on a limb. The house only has a Satyricon Night twice a year and there's always a fuss about who gets to play Giton. It doesn't matter what type you are, twice a year you walk around trying to look like an effeminate 16-year-old. Of course I can look 16 and because I'm not quite, it comes off a little campy. What I have trouble with is the looking knowledgeable. There's that innocence popping up again. Quiet sodomy with anticipating clients is one thing; a bawdy orgy is another. I was actually nervous for real.
But I have to admit, if the profits are in virginity, the ego grows on exhibition. There was everybody in their skimpy little tunics stretched out all over the couches and cots, waiting for those sluts to bring in the sweet and sour, and I got to make an entrance in a G-string and cape. There was everybody else in their whites and pale yellows and their cute little plastic-leaf chaplets, all looking at me. My headgear was the same, but the rest...gold lame' and a real gold chain instead of elastic. I remember thinking, "what the hell have I been missing?" I was kind of giddy as I stood there with old Smitty's arm around me. He got me all trembly with a saintly little kiss on the neck (for a real man he can be such a tease) and then left me with one of the county councilmen; I don't remember his name but one of the other lads said he was suffering from second term syndrome--confidence and power. Anyway, he was too young yet to be really a matter of fact so we both played the spectator while some of the younger vets got all sweaty trying to do pagan dances.
Then the food came in and somebody started a row because the sweet and sour had been changed to drumettes and all the snacks that were supposed to look like Roman delicacies were really dry. But Smith said that Carlisle said that he wasn't going to have anything that dripped or stained, not with all those rented costumes. Then somebody bitched that they could be careful and Smitty snapped back to the bitchy guy that he'd been there last time and was one of the group that camped it up in the prawns and camped out in the sweet and sour spareribs.
Then old H.E. came in dressed in an entire toga. He was looking stern and really wicked and one of the other guys whispered to me that he always came into period pieces like a vice squad cop; otherwise things got too damned casual and the customers would start taking it for granted. Carlisle thought it was a miracle that he allowed an extra West Point night this year. Well, anyway, I hadn't thought that Carlisle would show up--me and my ignorance. Well, I see by the way he looks at me that Smith didn't tell him I was going to play Giton and right away I get this picture of a horny frustrated den mother offering me cookies, milk and a look at how her bra unfastens. So I turned and started rubbing thighs with the councilman and then of course we had to hurry and pick up all the drumettes he spilled before the grease stained the satin sheets.
Well Honorary went on and mingled, and Smith gathered me up and took me on the pre-orgy rounds and I got my first introductions to some of the more affluent and less self-conscious regulars; that's one thing I learned right away about the orgy crowd--hang-ups and inhibitions get left at home and it's kind of refreshing. Anyway, I looked for a pal and settled for one of the coach types, only I didn't know the whole idea of Giton was to spread yourself around. So Smith gets to grabbing me in those nylon-pile arms of his and plops me down here and there. It was delightful, but I wasn't used to the wine. When you're innocent, you don't do naughty things like booze and dope unless you specialize in truant officers or evangelists. At least I managed to keep going until most of the group was zonked. Then I managed to steal away and joined this portly John in the john; he'd only made it as far as the sink, so I got to puke in the toilet.
Well the next thing I know, somebody's got my forehead and keeps saying "watch yourself, easy." But I'm making so much noise myself that I can't tell exactly who's talking. It turned out to be Carlisle. The old guy must have seen me shuffle off to the little boys room, because he's got a washcloth already and a minute later in comes Thor, one of the really cute muscle boys, with my cape. Well you know, after something like that I have to admit that the guy cares about me, but it also reminded him that he thinks I'm primo for the other trade.
So he says to me that my face has still got that perfect hint of hetero ruggedness that
drives forty-year-old broads wild and that he really had to arrange something. Well, what
can I do? I have to go along and hope I'm either a flop (which I doubt) or I get used to
it (which I doubt even more). I've got a week maybe, before my first date with the wrong
gender, and Smith says in the meantime he'll work me up with some one-nighters a' la pals
and otherwise I can work in-house. There's an off chance I can save myself from my fate
with a few rave reviews from the respected regular band members, but I'm afraid I'm going
to have to bluff it out in the end. I don't want Carlisle mad at me, after all; not when
he's got everybody's best interests at heart.
III
I warned him it would happen. I don't care what he says he thinks, I think he knows I didn't do it on purpose. He's only being stubborn about it. If he makes me try again the same thing's liable to happen; that ought to give him cause to think. I mean I'm damned sure the house has lost one customer...poor old gal. Still, I warned them both.
Smitty! Smitty was a big help, urging me on like that, trying to get me to make the best of it--as if they were thinking I wasn't going to try by best. But it's not the same as bluffing it out with somebody who's ugly or bulky or smelly. A woman, for God's sake! Castor oil! Such a pity too; I thought I was handling it so well. And she was surprisingly up front as well, which was pleasant. I thought I was going to have to struggle with heavy virginity on top of everything else, but she told me she thought I knew what had been arranged and so I got to say, yeah, that I knew and she wasn't going to have to seduce me or talk me into anything (should have known H.E. wouldn't give me an out like that).
And at least I didn't have to act embarrassed--that was real enough. I felt more naked with just my shirt off that first minute in her apartment than I ever had in two years in the harem. And then the rest! Oh, she must have ate it up, and I never got the satisfaction of knowing it was my acting skill that was behind it. She set her hand on my chest and I trembled--shit, if I could bottle that tremble! Then I stood in my cute jockey shorts while she carefully undressed in front of me. Boy, that was tense. I was hoping for a miracle, maybe that I'd start to get horny before she got to anything physical. Then I might get some control, might make the whole thing like with men. Her excitement wasn't going to be a problem, I could see that. In fact it was going to take an awful lot to screw up her mood. I guess you can say I came up with an awful lot.
Actually, I think overconfidence finally caught up with me. Just as we were both in the buff, I began to feel comfortable and in control of myself. I stupidly began to believe all the things I was telling myself about how I was feeling toward her...toward her. It wasn't a bad body, not for a woman her age I suppose, and certainly not in comparison to my fears; though I suppose Carlisle wasn't out to give me a hardcase right at first. So anyway, she put her head on my shoulder and gave me a seductive little rub. I thought to myself, "alright, you're going to come through it okay." Then she asked me to hold her breast and so I did and then I puked all over her.
She gave me cookies and pop and had me play her son's Atari while the cab made its way to the house. I don't know if I put her off for good; I never got to know how strong her bent was. Pity if I did queer it for her though; she was a nice guy and close, I think, to finding what she wanted.
Well Carlisle was a little miffed, and let his emotions get out before his usual logic. He accused me of being too sensitive for someone in my profession and even of deliberately screwing the deal. I looked real hurt, which worked until he remembered that hurt is one of my bread-and-butter expressions. At least he calmed down. Still, he's not ready to give up. He let me go with a "well, then, if it wasn't deliberate we shall have to let you try again." That was three days ago, and my stomach's still queasy. I'm worried, because I know Carlisle's looking for somebody else for me--somebody who's not so easily put off, someone who'll let me wretch and keep right on going. Smith says he'll see reason eventually, but we need to buy time.
That Smitty, he's a dear. He took me down for vaccinations and passport pictures today.
There is this nice young guy I've been with a couple of times since Satyricon night; he
was looking for a "nephew" to take on a trip to a conference in Brussels. We hit
if off and plans sort of snowballed into a three-week walking tour of England. I've heard
that trips don't pay much more than house commission, and I don't know about this walking;
but that guy is kinda cute and I really do have to get away.
C.P. Stancich is a freelancer and freeloader from Gig Harbor, the Scranton of the Northwest. For a really good time he sits alone in a dark room and thinks dirty thoughts. It can be quite a drain; he has only just recovered from such a sitting during which de decided that Tiberius wasn't such a bad guy once you got to know him.
For other stories by C.P. Stancich, click here.
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