Under the Surface

Desire doesn’t always shout.
Most of the time, it hides—pressed down, folded deep into the body until even breath forgets where it came from.

I don’t drag it out by force. I invite it. With the simplest tools I know: the strike of my hand, the familiar weight of my belt, the paddle that carries its own history. Minimal, but intentional.

Impact isn’t violence—it’s a summons. Skin wakes up. The nervous system remembers itself. And what has been buried, what has been starved of air, begins to surface.

Sometimes it doesn’t break through until the peak has passed. In the quiet after. When the body’s trembling softens into stillness, and there’s nowhere left to run. That’s when it comes—a single tear, or a flood. Grief, grief for the years you held it in.

And I stay. Vast, steady, as wide as the space you’re spilling into. Like water breaking from a balloon, shapeless until it finds a place to spread and soak.

No words are needed. The heat between us says more than language ever could. Sometimes it’s only the skin that reddens, sometimes it’s deeper—the fault line trembling underneath. Either way, something breaks open, and the release carries us past the surface, into the pulse of what’s real. And when the wave recedes, what lingers is not silence but a steadiness—my presence holding you, the unsaid promise that you don’t have to gather yourself alone.

Lies & Truths

Everyone wants surrender. They dress it up as “control,” as “taking,” as if passion were something you could pin down with force. But you can’t take what you haven’t learned to give.

In tantra, they say the current runs both ways. To feel someone open beneath you, you first have to feel the trembling inside your own body. You can’t guide another to stillness until you’ve breathed through your own chaos. Most men never learn that. They grip harder, terrified of softening, afraid that if they let go, they’ll be seen for what they are—aching, desperate, hungry.

Real surrender doesn’t come from chains or from bravado. It comes when you’re willing to meet your own edges and stay there. When you let the heat rise in your chest and don’t look away. When your breath slows, steady, inviting, and they follow without even knowing why.

And yes—sometimes it begins as theater. A role, a gesture, the practiced confidence of someone who isn’t all the way sure. But the body knows. The moment performance drops, the moment presence takes its place—everything changes. The air thickens. Every nerve lights up. And the ones who have felt that difference will never settle for less again

Dare to Say Yes

There’s a flicker when two bodies tune to the same frequency. A quickening of pulse, a shimmer in the air that feels like recognition. The limbic system hums its trick—whispers of forever tucked inside a glance, a hand held too long, a laugh that lands just right. It isn’t love, not yet. It’s limerence. That spark that makes the air ache.

I’ve ridden it before, like stepping onto an escalator you didn’t mean to take. Suddenly it’s pulling you upward, floor after floor, and you’re imagining mornings that never happened, futures that were never promised. The rush feels holy, but it isn’t proof. It’s only the body saying this could be it.

And the fire—it always comes easy. Heat is the easiest part. What lingers after, when the sweat cools, is the real test. Do they reach for you in daylight, when the music’s gone? Can that trembling body carry its presence into silence, into the mundane, into the next morning where the world demands more than chemistry?

Gay for Pay

They call it gay for pay. And with it comes the baggage—other men’s insecurities, their projections, their shame wrapped tight around desire. I saw it clearest in the younger ones, those still choking on the lie that wanting another man made them less than. They’d hand me their hunger, but also their fear, and it was my job to hold both.

That’s the part no one tells you: the work isn’t just flesh, it’s absorbing the weight of someone else’s secret and not letting it crush you. It’s taking their shame and still giving them a night that feels like freedom.

But I’m not twenty anymore. I’m not the naive kid hustling for cash on a dare, or trying to prove something. I’ve been at this long enough to know what lasts and what burns out quick. I’ve aged into it—late thirties now, silver at the temples, still strong, but sharper too. Cunning. A survivor who’s learned to bend instead of break.

And if I carry a kind of magic, it’s because women taught me. Healers, lovers, witches in their own right—they looked at me and saw the feminine spirit I’d buried under muscle and swagger. They taught me how to soften without losing my edge, how to hold space without disappearing into it.

That’s New Orleans magic.  The real witches are here. They knew me before I knew myself.

So yes, call it gay for pay. But for me, it’s never just been about the money. It’s about outlasting the shame, turning it inside out, and finding power in the very place the world told you to hide.

Jessie’s Girl

Kevin didn’t make auditions complicated. He asked if I had abs. I lifted my shirt. He nodded, like that was enough. “Alright. Go to Fulton County. Get your license. Come back tomorrow.”

Outside the county building, the sidewalks reeked of piss, the kind of city stain you stop noticing after a while. Inside, the air was clean enough, business as usual. Fluorescent lights, clerks stamping forms. They called it an Adult Entertainment License, printed on heavy paper like it meant something official.

I’d been ready for an audition. That’s what I’d heard from other guys — some showed up, danced, got cut. Politics. Bias. Strip club bullshit. But for me, it was just Kevin, the question about my abs, and the county clerk sliding a stamped sheet across the counter. That was it. Not skill. Not charm. Just a torso and a piece of paper.

Kevin himself looked like some raver version of Guy Fieri — short, stocky, with silver hoops in both ears, black hair gelled into spikes, a goatee sharp as wire. He barked at guys about being late, about being ready for their slot, but you could tell he loved the job. No need for him to say it.

My first night, he sent me out early. Club wasn’t full yet. Just a handful of older men scattered along Sniffer’s Row, bills already folded in their fists. The DJ booth lit up and out came Jessie’s Girl.

My ears burned hot. Embarrassment first, quick to anger right behind it. How the hell am I supposed to dance to Rick Springfield? Five minutes of denim and hips and nowhere to hide.

I worked the floor, leaning into it. Found something that felt like rhythm countering Rick Springfield’s guitar riffs to the back beat, sliding slow out of my jeans. Not fighting them — peeling them away like a second skin. Floor work carried me across the stage until I reached the pole. I knew what to do there. Muscle memory, instinct. Grip, swing, grind — familiar ground. Green as I was, it still looked good enough.

I caught Kevin laughing from the side, not cruel, just entertained. And somehow that steadied me. I leaned harder into it, let the nerves burn off, turned panic into performance.

And I got tipped. Not a shower, but enough. A little generosity saved my ass. An older couple I’d crossed paths with back in New Orleans during Southern Decadence showed up — two husbands out of Greenville, South Carolina. I’d given them both sensual massages several times. Don’t ask how, don’t ask why. It just happened that way, the kind of chance ritual that sticks without explanation. The older one had to be pushing ninety, the younger maybe mid-fifties. They were generous, quiet about it, like guardian angels in polos. They handed me cash without a word, and that was grace.

Around me, the floor wasn’t quiet. Never was. A boy in the corner had his pants at his ankles, grinding out a forty-dollar lap dance against the wall. That was the culture — flesh and sweat everywhere, booths optional.

I stayed with it. Finished the song. Jeans on the stage.

First dance done. The crowd didn’t cheer, but they didn’t look away either. That was enough.

No Name for This Desire

They tell men to pick a box and live small inside it.
Gay. Straight. The words cut clean, but the truth doesn’t. Desire doesn’t follow lines. It leaks through. It finds you in the dark, when you’re alone, when the mask slips.

He was late. Forty minutes. Rain-soaked, stuck at the buzzer. When he finally made it in, he apologized over and over, voice shaking, eyes sharp with something heavier than nerves. Gratitude. Desperation. He knew this mattered. Said it was eating him alive.

I could see it. The way his body carried both shame and desire. The way he thanked me for keeping time, as if time itself might slip out from under him if he didn’t step into this.

It wasn’t about preference. I’ve always loved women — their scent, their softness, their wildness. But there’s something in a man’s touch — heavier, mirrored — that’s familiar in a way I can’t call foreign. And with him, it was sure. Steady. Too sure for a first time, I thought. But maybe that’s what happens when you’ve been starving long enough.

He sat there, dripping from the rain, still apologizing. I told him to breathe. He did. I could feel the storm in him, all that desire pressed down for years until it turned into something raw and shaking.

I steadied myself too. A long inhale, the kind I’ve learned to take when the room is about to change. Grounding. Pulling everything into the moment, into my body.

When I reached for him, the air shifted. His touch was firm, practiced even, not the fumbling of a man new to this ground. I caught myself wondering if he’d told me the truth, or if what he called “first time” was just the first time he let someone see him. Either way, the weight of it was real.

It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t perfume and curves. It was something else — blunt, mirrored, familiar in its own way. He carried it like a man who knew the stakes, who’d been starving and now finally fed. There was a kind of raw gratitude in it, almost joy, like he was just grateful to be here, grateful to give.

I held him steady when he trembled. Guided him when he faltered. And when the moment broke — when release came — it was me taking it in hand, taking it out of his, pressing him to stay with it, to hold the weight of what he’d asked for.

When it was done, he sat back, chest heaving, eyes wet with something he didn’t try to hide. The shame wasn’t gone, but it had loosened its grip. He wasn’t starving anymore.

He didn’t leave gay. He didn’t leave straight. He left with no name for this desire, and that was enough.

In the Trenches

Most men think they could do this. They talk about it like it’s easy money. Like all it takes is a hard body and a willing girl. They say they could be entertainers, they could step into the industry — but only with women. Never with men. That’s the line they draw, like the world cares about their rules.

They’re missing the picture. They don’t see the grind, the emotional toll. They don’t see what it means to hand your body over, to turn intimacy into labor, to create space for other people’s desires. To hold them steady, without flinching, without judgment.

I’m not afraid of it. Vulnerability’s the only reason I’m still here. Whether giving or receiving, with women or men, I’m not fragile enough to pretend there’s a difference. Transactionally, it’s business. But underneath that, it’s more — it’s about being willing to drop the armor, to let the act shape you, to stand inside of it and not look away.

Don’t mistake me for soft. Compassion has its place, but so does the cut. I can hold someone’s secret one night and the next fire words like arrows if they come at me sideways. Quick, sharp, off the cuff. I’ve been like that my whole life. I’m learning how to let the anger pass through me without burning the whole room down. But anger’s still there, waiting. Just another part of the arsenal.

That’s why most of them would never last. So few men could make it here, only working with women. Almost none. Because this isn’t about choosing the parts you like. It’s about standing in the trenches and letting it all touch you — the fear, the desire, the shame, the release — without flinching.

Jealousy the Teacher

I knew jealousy before I had a word for it.
It showed up like heat under the ribs, a stone lodged behind the heart. A restless animal that paced the cage of my chest. I thought it meant love. I thought it meant proof.

Most men stop there. They let that animal steer their lives, gnaw at their sleep, eat away the edges of the very thing they’re afraid to lose.

I learned, slow, that jealousy wasn’t proof of love — it was proof of fear. Fear that what I wanted might slip away. Fear that I wasn’t enough to keep it.

It took me a long time to see it for what it really was: a teacher.

I still feel it sometimes. It shows up like a hand pressed against my ribs, a quick heat in the throat. The difference now is I know the lesson when it comes. I breathe through it. I let it teach me something about trust, about control, about surrender.

I’ve seen it in others too.

There was a night in New Orleans — a husband brought me to meet his wife. He called himself a cuck, half laughing, half trembling. She sat between us, her hand resting on mine, her eyes never leaving his.

He wanted to squirm. He wanted to watch. That was the deal. My role wasn’t just to take her. It was to guide him through the fire of it. To make jealousy do its work.

I leaned into her, kissed her slow, let him see the way her lips opened, the way her breath caught. His face flushed, his fists clenched — but he stayed. He needed to. We had already agreed he wouldn’t leave his comfy little cuck chair, no matter how hot the fire got. Those were the terms. His place was to sit, to take the burn, to watch her slip further from his grasp and into something higher.

Her moans climbed, sharp at first, then softer, breaking into laughter. Not mocking, not cruel — joy, spilling out of her in a way that shook the room. She clutched at me, half crying, half laughing, tears streaking down as if her body had carried her somewhere she hadn’t known she could go.

Then she asked for more. Not polite, not careful — breathless, bratty. “Harder. Deeper. More.” Every word an edge, a dare, as if she knew there was still another place to be taken.

I gave it to her. My hands holding her steady, my body answering her call. The room trembled with it, her voice rising again, cracking into something that was half plea, half demand, all need.

And he stayed in his chair. His body wound tight, squirming, trapped between pain and awe. Watching her ask for more than he could ever give. Watching me give it, and her take it, until there was nothing left to ask.

Her body shook against mine, her voice breaking with need until there was nothing left but release. I finished deep inside her, and we stayed there, tangled, holding each other as the room settled. The laughter gone now, replaced with a quiet that felt heavier than the heat in the air.

When we rolled to the side, I saw him at the foot of the bed. Still in his chair, but smaller now. Like a dog waiting at the door. Not broken — softer. Proud, almost. He’d faced the fire he’d been afraid of, and he could see it hadn’t burned him away. It had given her something he could never give, and he carried that weight with a strange kind of joy.

She reached for my hand. Together, we looked down at him.

“Tell us what you need,” she whispered, her voice still ragged with pleasure.

I echoed her, low and steady. “Ask us.”

He swallowed, eyes low. “Please… let me clean up.” The words came meek, trembling, but honest.

We let him. And in that moment, it wasn’t punishment. It was belonging. His pride was in her joy, his place sealed not in what he took, but in what he could give.

Between the Bars

I’d come south a few years before. New Orleans had worked on me, stripped me down, dressed me back up. But there were things it couldn’t change. The way work lived in my hands. The way my skin carried its own scent — clean, salt, sweat — more invitation than cologne.

By then I had confidence. Enough to sit alone at a bar. Not enough to see through every game.

The parade was still winding through the Quarter, brass and drums leaking through the walls. The bar shook with it — jukebox humming, glasses rattling, voices too loud. Outside they were throwing beads, trinkets, trash. Toilet paper sketched with crude jokes, floats shaped like dicks and water meters, mocking the Sewerage & Water Board. The whole city laughing at itself.

She was at the bar, alone, drink in hand. Older, steady. Rings flashing when she lifted her glass. Lipstick dark, marking the rim. She didn’t look at me first, but she let me catch her in the mirror.

I slid into the stool beside her. Close, not crowding.

“You don’t look like you’re catching throws,” she said.

“Too much junk flying out there,” I said. “Noise without a song.”

That made her laugh, low in her chest. “So what are you looking for then?”

“Something quieter. Even if it’s not quiet here.”

She tilted her glass toward me. “Most people just want to catch whatever’s flying through the air. Doesn’t matter what it is. Junk, beads, dicks on toilet paper.” Her smile lingered, sharp and small. “But you look like the kind who only reaches for what’s worth holding.”

The bartender dropped two fresh drinks without asking. She pushed one toward me. “On me,” she said. Then: “Sweet boys shouldn’t pay for their own drinks in this city.”

Her eyes stayed on mine while she stirred her glass. The cherry rolled, red against the rim. She bit it clean, lips parting slow.

“You look like trouble.”

“Maybe.”

She studied me for a moment, then leaned in close enough for me to feel her voice.
“You ever let a woman take care of you?”

The silence after was heavier than the brass outside. She dropped bills on the counter and stood. “Come on.”

The street was slick from a passing rain, lamps glow soft halos. She lived a few blocks off Esplanade, in a pale blue Camelback trimmed with white. The paint was weathered at the edges, shutters open wide. A wrought iron porch ran the length of it, draped with ferns and pots of green spilling down the rails and between the bars.

It was unusually warm for late February, the kind of heat that pressed into your chest and made the night feel swollen. Most people shut their houses tight, sealing in cool air.

Not her. Every window was open. Curtains breathed with the thick night. From the street I could see the shadows of plants inside, leaves reaching toward the air. The place looked alive, almost overgrown — lush, witchy, the kind of house that carried her presence before she ever opened the door.

Feral in its own way.

The door opened with a low creak. Inside, the air was heavy, carrying the same warmth as the street. The foyer stretched tall and dark, the kind of space that swallowed sound. A potted fig stood near the window, its leaves casting shadows across the wall. A small vine trailed from a shelf, green against the plaster.

It smelled like her — clean and floral, but with something earthy beneath it. A scent you didn’t find bottled.

I shut the door behind me. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

I slipped out of my boots, and when I looked up, her eyes were on me, steady. I stepped closer, slid my hand to her hip, and pulled her waist into mine. My other hand traced the line of her spine, slow, until I felt the goosebumps rise under her skin. She exhaled when my palm reached her neck.

I bent down and kissed her, opening her lips with mine. She was small against me, but she didn’t yield. She pressed in harder, her body sure, matching mine.

When I opened my eyes, I caught her watching us in the mirror by the wall. For a beat we both stilled, then she laughed, soft, low. I laughed too, with ease.

“Come on,” she said. “Let me show you the master bedroom.”

We climbed the stairs slow. The wood creaked under us, the air thick with the warmth of February. She talked as we moved, not much, just enough to let pieces slip. How she’d come here years ago for work. How she fell for the house before she fell for the city.

On the wall I caught a photograph — her in a robe and cap, younger, smiling wide. Valedictorian, maybe. Another frame, a ceremony, the kind that gives you letters after your name. I figured professor. I didn’t ask.

She stopped at the landing, pointed me to the bathroom. I stepped in and closed the door.

Inside, everything was ordered, soft, alive. Towels folded thick. A clawfoot tub waiting under the window. A vine trailing green along the sill. It smelled fresh, clean, faintly floral. A bidet gleamed in the corner. Even her bathroom carried the weight of taste, the kind that turned me on more than I wanted to admit.

I splashed water on my face, ran my hand through my hair, breathed in.

When I stepped out, the house was still, except for her.

She was waiting in the bedroom, already bare, perched at the edge of a big brass bed. Small, steady, arms loose at her sides, eyes holding me in place.

I was still dressed but for my boots. I pulled my shirt over my head. She reached out, her hands tracing my chest, pausing at my stomach. “You’re ripped,” she whispered, half to herself. Her palms slid lower, unfastened my belt in one pull. My pants fell. I stepped out easy.

Her mouth found mine. Urgent. Pulling me down onto the bed. Her legs opened, drawing me in.

Her breath broke into moans, no words. I leaned close, pressed my thumb against her lips. She closed around it, trembling.  Is her tongue making a figure eight on my thumb?  Pulling out and circling her soft lips while admiring and caressing her jawline and neck.  Running my hands through her fine strawberry blonde hair I finally get to breathe her in through my nose—Deeply— my neck hairs stand as her essence intoxicates me in an instance.

I touched her slow, deliberate, coaxing her body open. The pressure built sharp and sudden until it broke, her cry filling the room, wetness rushing out of her, startling her more than me.

She pulled back, gasping, staring at me like she’d just discovered herself.

I kissed her, slow.

And let the silence hold the answer.