San Francisco telephone pimp

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Chief Ironsides' and Perry Masons assistants were conspicuously clean-cut, broad-shouldered hunks. If I'd noticed the parallel I'd've ascribed it to casting departments unsurprising bias toward All-American manhood. Probably it was. The sound of the familiar voice of a man I'd never met gave me reason to wonder otherwise. He'd been a regular client of Richard of SF for many years.

Most of his clients hadn't even fifteen seconds of fame. They were mostly middle-aged men from out of town. I wish I had entertaining stories of telephone pimping in San Francisco. Richard of SF had a large steadily clientele; new customers were dealt with in a simple but strict fashion. Before we'd talk about boys or fees a new client had to give us his name and phone number and let us call him back. If we couldn't call his hotel and ask for his room by name we wouldn't deal with him. If the man was calling from his home and had an unlisted number he was out of luck.

None of the clients tried to cheat a boy or give him a hard time.

A group of Richard of SF's friends took me on a tour of San Francisco's gay bars. I'd never started drinking at noon before. I forget the name of the famous Folsom Street leather bar where the tour concluded. Unlike Atlanta's only leather bar of the time the guys did look at act butch.

It all ended on a sour note when the guy who'd taken me around got pissy when I wouldn't sleep with him. When his last drink wore off the calmed down and we parted amiably.

While I was selling sex in San Francisco I didn't have any sex myself. Richard of SF wouldn't let me bring anybody to his flat. A couple of his boys wanted to sleep with me but the feeling wasn't returned (one of them had one two biggest cocks I've ever seen, many men would've been turned on, I just thought it was frightening). The one of the boys that I did want to fuck didn't find me attractive. I'd met The Most Beautiful Boy but he was months in the future.

Richard of SF kept a sweet looking ex-Marine around the house for his own use. My second San Francisco surprise was that we finally figured out that he'd called me in Atlanta. I hadn't hired him because he didn't seem bright enough to be a male whore. I never could figure out if he wanted to sleep with me. Partly because he was too dumb to be able to communicate clearly, partly because he still tended to think of himself as straight. He was pretty enough for me to be interested but also I thought too much of a top for us to manage to work anything out.

After a few months Richard of SF set me up as telephone pimp in West Hollywood.

Part I: Peddling flesh in Atlanta

Part II: Young love for sale

Part IV: West Hollywood Pimp

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Thanks,
Richard

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