A Work of Art 8

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Max

Max

Jeremy called me this morning, asking me if I would take care of a blind customer.

“I trust you would be the best for him,” he said, “you always take care of special needs.”

I said I had never done it with a blind man, but that it could be interesting. Plus, I needed the money. I always need that extra income from Jeremy’s little enterprise, officially offering one-on-one San Francisco tours. Let me explain. It’s a gay escort service. Jeremy is a concierge at a big hotel downtown, who found years ago that visitors often need an alternative to trying their luck at various bars in SOMA, the Castro, or Polk Street, depending on their preferred style. At times we, officially tour guides working for his tour service, will be hired to accompany those men through the city, and make ourselves available to return to their hotel room for the night. Some will just ask for “a date” i.e. dinner at a nice restaurant, maybe a night at the opera, the ballet, or the theatre, and then decide if they want the company for the night, or part of it. Jeremy has all sorts of guys working for him, and he has a good eye for matching compatible customers with each of us. We have actually helped guys to come out of the closet. Sometimes they come to San Francisco to explore a side of them they couldn’t explore in their hometown.

Jeremy doesn’t advertise locally. Actually it seems he doesn’t have to advertise at all. The word gets around, and he’s a friendly concierge who will figure out what the customer wants even if it isn’t spelled out for him.

And you want to know the odd thing about Jeremy? He’s straight. He won’t extend his services to help straight people, because, he says, they don’t need it. Fine, I’m not judging.

But why do I do it? It’s mostly about earning enough money to stay in San Francisco, but also I don’t like dating, you know, just like I don’t enjoy figuring out if a shirt I buy will still be lovely a week later. I say to myself, I will know when I see the man of my life. I also get tired of getting asked out just because they find me hot, when they could at least try to see if I’ll flirt back. The question I’d like to ask up front would be, would you love me if I were disfigured? If they hesitate to answer, you know you’ll want to pass on the offer.

At least when they pay, I know they’ll go away (or most often I’ll walk out of their hotel room), hopefully satisfied and grateful for the few hours we had together. They don’t get your personal phone number, and you don’t have to give them your name or any information they could use to trace you back, without first asking Jeremy. That also means I can tell Jeremy who can come back and who should not (he’ll tell them I moved out, for example, or that I’m booked until the epoch).

He suggested I go to a place called The Lighthouse to get trained in how to guide blind people. I said, “really? For one night?” He said it could be useful, and since we really want to please, it would be the least we could do. I got his point, and I called, and they said they had brochures for me, and how nice it was that tour guides would take the time to learn about blind people. I said I would come by to pick up the brochures.

Jeremy said the customer would be here Monday.

 

A Work of Art 2

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Max

Max

We’re about to set a record this morning: two guys in a row came flirting with me. I’m expecting a third one any time now. The first one was a regular, the lawyer guy with the old sports car. He seemed to be in a particular good mood, and left heavy coins in the tip jar. The second, on the other hand, was like counting his money to make sure he had enough, but he gave me his business card as if he wanted to start something, I don’t know. That would have been normally creepy, but it seemed like it was his first time, which is strange because he works in the Castro, at a framing shop. Actually, he owns the shop, because his card says “proprietor.” I’ll keep it, you never know. Plus, he seemed like a nice guy. He was just passing by, he said, coming back from picking up a big art piece for a gallery opening. I guess if he really had a crush on me he would have invited me. I’m not sure I would accept anyway, I like my semi-anonymous situation right now. What is it, fear of commitment? I don’t have the money to spend on some therapist to figure that out, and what would it give me? Some boy friend who, like all these guys when they get older, would forget our history and run for the wild young ones. I wonder if this one, Peter, the framer, has a boyfriend, or even a husband, and that would explain why he seemed so… out of practice. Didn’t wear a ring, but that doesn’t mean anything. I can’t stand rings, or piercings, they make you feel like a branded animal.

Okay, so now it’s quiet hour, before the strollers and the pregnant women come for their double decaf non fat lattes, time to do some cleaning and stuff. The others, the regulars who come for the wi-fi, the boss says are essential to make the shop more inviting, looking busy. I just think, sometimes, my butt would be sore sitting like that all day long, and my face would be, like, radioactive from staring at the screen.

The lawyer guy reminds me of some of my evening clients, the ones Jeremy sets me up with sometimes. They usually come from out of town, many staying at the hotel where Jeremy works. He’s the Concierge, and that’s a cool job in a sense, getting people what they want in a city they don’t know. Nobody scheduled for tonight, which is kind of normal because on Friday the business people leave, and new ones arrive Sunday night or Monday, eager for an evening of relaxation. I don’t know what I’ll do tonight, though. Maybe do laundry, and watch TV… With Paul, my controlling roommate. That’s a mean thing to say, but it’s true. He wants everything so orderly you would think he’d be bored with life. The most exciting thing he does is watching porn, and it’s not even good, in my opinion.

The stroller brigade is starting to arrive. Go to go.