Life as a male escort.

There is an urban myth that only drug dealers and escorts need two mobile phones, and I can tell you it's truer than you might think. As an escort, you learn to love and loathe that second phone in equal measure: the desire for it to ring because you want the money, followed by the inevitability of what it means once it does. The last-minute cancelling and lying to friends and family was something I never reconciled myself to.
I'm not what people expect: I've got a masters degree in music, a comfortable and loving family background, and a real job - broadly speaking, I work in the creative industry, in an area rich in job satisfaction if not remuneration. No excuse, but that was how I justified my night-time adventures to myself.
It was through my job that I first came into contact with an escort. I was intrigued - it seemed so easy and financially rewarding. He worked for an agency that served some of the richest men in London. Within a month, I was on the books. I'd kept secret the fact I wasn't comfortable with my sexuality. One would assume accepting that you are gay would be a prerequisite for such a career, but I convinced myself otherwise. Denial - I'm quite good at that.
My first booking came within a week. I was on edge for three days leading up to it. When the evening came around, the agency phoned with details of where to go. I had hoped to meet in a restaurant or bar - a public place, offering opportunities to chicken out - but I was sent to the client's house. I arrived early and walked up and down the street outside for 20 minutes, talking myself out of it and then, just as fast, persuading myself to go ahead. In the end, curiosity won out.
Life soon became a series of absurd non sequiturs. When I excused myself from after-work drinks, it's safe to assume none of my colleagues suspected that, while they enjoyed a chat in the pub, I was being asked to parade around a warehouse apartment wearing nothing but a pair of Speedos and a smile. At first, such secret rendezvous were thrilling, but the excitement soon faded.

Escorting is not so much a job as a lifestyle, and your boundaries get tested and reassessed very quickly. I'd always thought a threesome must be a liberating experience, and soon I didn't flinch if I counted four other escorts in the room. It's when you see an orgy as part of a normal day that life slips into a slightly surreal and complicated mire.
The sex was always empty. Being an escort is not about intimacy and certainly not about love. It is simply a transaction. There is no flow, no shared experience, just buyer and seller. Money was never discussed because the agency settled the rates beforehand, but while on the surface we were there to enjoy each other's company, the unspoken assumption was that I had been paid for and so would do as I was told. The only time I felt the power shift in my favour was when the client was nervous or seemed to be very taken with me. I wasn't flattered, but I did feel more in control.
By and large, the clients fit a similar demographic - between 40 and 60, and extremely wealthy. Such men exist in a world where money can, literally, buy anything, but even within this culture there are hierarchies. As one client told me, "Rent boy just sounds vulgar, dirty". Even I had to admit to feeling superior; the word "escort" conjured a more romantic image. Regulars were the easiest to deal with because I knew what to expect. It was new clients who made me anxious - a mixture of expectation, uncertainty and just a little fear.
I didn't have boyfriends, although other escorts did; some even dated each other, which seemed far too complicated. I'm old-fashioned in that respect - when I do go out with somebody, I'm monogamous. I can't see the point otherwise.
In the latter half of last year alone, I probably made upwards of £20,000 (excluding the little gifts and shopping trips you pick up along the way). Despite all this, in recent months, the phone has been turned off. The truth is, I've never felt cheaper. Valued against my morals and my dignity, the cash didn't seem so great.
The money is transient, but there is one permanent now, one unchangeable truth - I can dress it up any way I want, and use all the avoidance tactics I'm so fond of, but I've sold myself for sex and will have to live with that for the rest of my life.

The Guardian, Saturday 4 August 2007