A Consumer's Guide to Male Hustlers Read Free Page B

Clinic. My therapist would have a fit if he knew that we are having sex!"
    "What is the Forensic Clinic?"
    "It is a clinic for sex offenders who go there by court order. But they also take voluntary patients with sexual disorders."
    "What is your disorder?"
    "The same as yours. We are homosexuals. My therapist says that we are all really sociopaths." A few minutes later, Joel was out of my house and my life.
    I was heartbroken. Now some of Joel's oddities made sense to me. For instance, he had not given me his address or phone number. I had no way of getting in touch with him. But I did not really understand what had happened—how overnight, without apparent reason, our affair ended so abruptly. The Joel incident was the harbinger of the many misadventures I would experience in my non-hustler relationships, including therapists alienating my companions, constant kaleidoscopic affairs and, above all, inexplicably odd behavior by my partners.
    Eventually, I sought out Albert and resumed our paid-for relationship. I could have afforded to see Albert more often, but I forced myself to spend one evening a week cruising. I did not want to have to pay for sex always.
    Sex for money was an easier proposition in Mexico. There was no question in my mind that in Mexico I was economically much better situated than all of my partners. Not only were they poor, but they really had to help support their huge families. It was a charitable act to help them out.
    In Toronto, when I still had my job, I drew an average salary, commensurate with my position. Albert, just like me, could have found a job and supported himself. I was still brainwashed by the social mores that condemned paying for sex, especially if both parties enjoyed the experience. It took me many years to formulate correctly the question I should have asked myself in Toronto: "Am I satisfied with Albert's services?" rather than "What is Albert's justification for hustling?"
    At that time, the first exclusively gay bathhouse opened in Toronto. It was called The Roman Baths. I would go there once a week, and usually hate every moment of it. Nobody I liked wanted to have anything to do with me. As always, the few men who desired me did not interest me at all. Now that I saw Albert and other hustlers, searching for free sex made even less sense to me.
     
    * * *
     
    I took to San Francisco right away. Ever so slowly, I started coming out of the closet, and for the first time in my life had gay friends. I was also much more successful sexually in this city than I had been in Toronto. I found more ethnic variety here, and was more attractive to other gays. But I still preferred the ease of meeting hustlers.
    When I arrived in San Francisco at the end of 1964, it was still safe to cruise at Union Square. In the evenings, time permitting, I would go to the park and cruise for a while. Then, if I had not found a suitable partner, I would go across the street, where Geary intersects Powell, at the south side of the St. Francis Hotel. The better- class hustlers would hang out there, to the great chagrin of the hotel's management. (The corner of Market and Mason Streets was reserved for the less classy hustlers.) I would find a suitable hustler and take him home. My goal was to end each of my cruising sessions with a companion in tow—free if possible, paid for if necessary!
    After a few weeks I had a small pool of favorite hustlers to choose from. The hustlers and I became friendly with each other. As I had learned to do in Mexico, I made up a sex budget and stuck to it.
    Without the constraints of a budget, I probably would have dispensed with cruising altogether and picked up only hustlers. These hustlers were usually more physically appealing, and often socially even more enjoyable than the people I met at the square.
    My Union Square days were numbered. Within two years it became too dangerous to cruise the square. Hippies started dealing drugs there, attracting hoods and unwanted