workin' 9 to 5

there's nothing like being your own boss. you get to sleep in. you get to work the hours you want, or near enough. you get all the profits.

but it's still work. you gotta be receptionist, bookkeeper, security guard and gopher restocking the office supplies (lube, rubbers, gloves etc). and you get to yell at yourself to get yourself out of bed and go to work. "come on! get up! that old man's arse ain't gonna fuck itself!"

with the ad back up online phone calls started again. there's only me and one other guy in melbourne with chest hair, so only us two can help out anyone who wants some rough manly trade. not that i'm saying chest hair makes you more of a man and smooth hairless guys are less of a man, but... ahh fuck it, yes i am. a sissy shaved chests make you less of a man. chest hair makes you a man! a real man!

i only had one booking this wednesday. it was a guy from the country. in a relationship. he's a top, but every now and them he needs to cop it up the shitter. i'm more than happy to be the man to do it. i threw him to the ground, foot on his chest while he watched me jack my cock. spit in his mouth then dragged him to the bed. i fucked him like a bitch and that little birdie sang (is that right? there was joke on 30 Rock last week saying that 2 metaphors equals poor writing. hmmm...). he loved it. will see him again next time he comes to town

on the way out of the hotel i got an sms from a guy on the western coast of melbourne. "can you come now?" i jumped in my mates car and head across town. while stuck in traffic i heard from him again. "i have a pair of footy shorts. just wondering if you could put them on for me?"

aww... that's adorable. the cute thing about fetishes is people are still really shy about admitting what really turns them on, even when it something as tame as footy shorts. i love rugby shorts so i'm more than happy to pull on a new pair

i got there and he was a good looking kid. mid 20s and very shy. he handed me a pair of sleek AFL shorts. his local team. i pulled them up and teased him. got him on his knees and rubbed his face in them. held his arms behind his back, made his lick my nuts then try to fish out my cock through the leg of the shorts just by using his mouth. that was tough because the shorts and domination got me as hard as fucking rock

all done and i got another msg for a job in a few hours. while eating some greasy roadside BBQ chicken i got this msg from the footy shorts guy (while i was on grindr)


penis? i think he was a doctor or a nurse

the last guy was a fellow i'd seen a few times before in Sydney. i pulled on my leather harness and boots (they were always in the car, just in case) and drove over to his south melbourne house. he rolled a joint then lay out all his gear, buttplugs, dildos, a whip, crisco and tube of KY.

"what would you like to start with first, master?"

i looked at his face. "let's start with the hood." i kicked back in the chair. sunk a few beers in my 14hole steel cap Rangers while he sucked my cock. then dominate him. rape his face. drill his hole. piss in his mouth. fist his arse.

outcalls are great you don't have to worry about cleaning up before and after a session. and if you don't like it. you can always leave easily. but you gotta learn to ignore if someone lives in squalor, or their tacky decor, and not laugh at the appalling art they have hanging on their walls. the biggest problem can be pets. dogs especially. now this fellow's dogs were not as bad as the other guy's staffy who wouldn't stop licking my balls while i fucked her owner, but it was still distracting when there's a poodle curled on the sofa watching every move you make while you've got your fist jammed up inside it's daddy's arsehole

that day i ended up working a full 8 hours. that's like a real job that normal people do! i slept well that night, except for the image of the look on that poor poodle's face haunting my dreams

hit that perfect beat, boy

the bike was still unfound. luckily i had Benji's car, even if it was a little banged up thanks to my dumb ass. so at least on nights off or in between jobs i got to check out more of melbourne's sleazier side. it's nice to drive a new car. and it's nice that while cruising melbourne's beats somebody else's number plate will get recorded by police for a change :)

ever cruised a beat on a motorcycle? sure it's hot in your leathers. but you gotta take off your helmet and lock it to the bike. walk around in your gear which can be a pain in the arse seeing as getting your bits out can prove difficult. if it gets cold or rains your fucked. you can't leave your groceries in the back seat, so if you carry around a bag with you at cruising area it looks mighty creepy. you can sit in the drivers seat of a car and hang around but it's tough to look inconspicuous or like you're just innocently hanging out at a dark secluded park when you're leaning on a motorbike

but hey, the bike has sure worked in my favour in the past. every dirty beat queen loves the leather jacket. some way they jizz their knickers when they see a ute in the parking lot. they all love to think they're getting the closeted straight guy. sometimes you do get that straight guy, but unless you go back to his car and he has to unhook the babyseat so you can have sex in the backseat, chances are you just getting off with another homo.


it says it about Joe Orton, but it's just a bunch of scenes about beatsex in london in the 60s

i'd give him a few bucks for a bj. just to feel that hobo beard tickling my balls

FML x2

so i get up, grab the leather jacket, helmet and keys and get ready for work. i step out on the footpath and...

"where's my bike?"

i looked around. i thought about where i parked it last night. yep. i parked it outside the house. it had been stolen. i went back inside and started punching and kicking every damn thing i could destroy. then sat down and called the police. after the initial outburst i was quite calm. not so angry. i think it had something to do with getting ass-raped 2 days before. i had been so fucking calm since. i was the zen master. all i needed was a big cock smashing my hole to pieces and i could achieve that inner piece i been searching for. maybe i should become a bottom. yeah because that's what the world needs, another miserable hooker blog and yet another bottom

i few hours later the police found Trevor, my shitty little motorbike, dumped in the river not far from my house. "cool. i'll come pick it up."

"it's been towed," said the policewoman, "but we don't know where it's been towed to. um... someone will call you back about that."

Benji had quit the brothel and was heading back to sydney for a couple of weeks. he loaned me his car. awesome! over the next 4 days i spoke to 2 police stations and about 7 or 8 different officers, all of which could not find where the hell my bike had been towed to.

stressed and annoyed and angry, driving to work saturday morning in Benji's car, i hit another car on Hoddle Street

fuck!

the other car


Benji's car

velvet hammer

i always score a job on saturday afternoons. today a shy guy came in. there was only me and Connor, he's a spotty faced twink, but we got on well. Connor intros first. within a minute he stomps back into the hooker lounge with his arms folded "yuck. he's gross. i hope he picks you!"

i walk into the intro room and there's sits a man in his 20s, a young Quinten Tarrantino trying to look cool, but slightly nervous in his overly casual lean. i have no idea why Connor was horrified, this guy is kind of cute. after some chit chat, "so what are you looking to get into?"

"oh, you know..."

"no. i don't know. that's why i need to ask," i smile

""oh, just... you know... take it as it comes. see what happens."

"are you a top ...or looking to get fucked," he just kind smiled and danced around the answer so i decided to answer for him, "i'm a top and i reckon you should get fucked."

he books me for 30minutes. i take him to a room upstairs. tell him to shower and i will be back in a few minutes and the booking will start then. 5 minutes later i come back and this once shy and timid man throws down his towel and leaps on me grabbing my neck, one arm thrown around me. one leg flew up and wrapped around my waist while he hopped on the other leg trying to wrap that around me also like a horny dog masturbating on your leg at a family barbecue. he was shy no more.

he turned out to be a hot fuck. i kept bending and twisting him around so he could see himself getting fucked in the mirror. i fucked the shit out of him. after a while, i did have to throw him face down on the bed with all my weight on one arm holding him by the back of the neck just the keep the fucker still! by the end he was happy. a grin on his face about the length of my cock. how did i know it was the length of my cock? because he still had the red mark of my cock across his face from all the slapping with it i did earlier

it's these moments that you proud

hammered

not only can Melbourne be cold. it can also be fucking frustrating. getting a simple no strings hook up can be like pushing shit up hill. and like a little dung beatle, when you finally get up to the top of the hill and score a hook up, quite often all you end up with is big useless ball of shit.

I'm from Sydney, so if you find something you like, you message for a bit then hook up. but guys in Melbourne (generally) want to chat... and chat some more... and a little bit more and then after a few hours of tedious chat they can meet you for a coffee next Thursday. by Thursday I'm already chasing something else, if not fucked 4 other guys. a few times I've waited and waited and eventually met the guy, and they're a dud root. partly because i've lost interest and probably because it takes so long for them to put out they haven't racked up enough experience. in the end it's unsatisfying, even boring and you do things like... "what's that? hang on i think i got a msg on my phone."

"but your phone didn't ring."

"it's on vibrate. it's urgent. i gotta go, sorry."

"but don't you wanna cum?"

"hmm... nah, i'm alright. cheers. thanks a lot. bye."

but this Sunday morning. i was determined to get one. and for once, i wanted to get fucked! i wanted my ass drilled! i had such a frustrating week to come home at 4am in the morning after a hard night at the whorehouse and wank myself off every night just to get to sleep. i found a guy i'd messaged before. shaved head, goatee, hairy chest, a mean looking sexy fucker who was ready to hook up right now. he sent a pic of his cock. it wasn't small, but not too big. it was one i reckon i could take on.

i showered. washed my bits and pushed all the shit in my room up against the wall and under the bed - i was out to impress! the guy turned up. sexy fucker and just as mean looking as i hoped. he smoked a bit, we a had a beer and then got into it. he was hot. awesome kisser. didn't play all his cards at once and didn't drag it out. i could feel his cock in his trakkie daks and it was feeling pretty damn hard and big. then i pulled it out. it was huge



i think back to the cock pic he sent. did i get confused? was that someone else's cock? later i realised i had looked at his cock from the hand up. i didn't see the extra 3 inches under his hand. "oh shit," i thought, "that's gonna break me. that's gonna split me in two! i need to make an excuse... i gotta get out of here... i gotta get outta here...!"



ahh fuck it

i let him try and get it in. not too gentle, not too rough. damn his porridge was just right! he fucked the hell out of Goldilocks. smacked me around a bit like that woman in the video above too. for three hours. three loud, shouting, grunting, sweaty hours. i nearly tore his goddamn head off when i blew. then just before i passed out he rode off. i spent the rest of the afternoon snoozing and laying in bed with a huge dirty grin on my face.

i was telling a mate..., well, i was bragging to a mate the following day, telling him how by the second hour of getting ass-raped my legs started shaking involuntarily

"dude. that means you're body is going into shock!"

"oh. really? hmm..."

"what was his name?"

"pfft... i don't know..."

utes

I'd had a good week. work was back up. money was coming in. getting closer to saving up for a car. Melbourne in winter is too cold for a motorbike so i need a car.

i want a ute.



why do i want a ute? it's because they're fuckin hot. and i'm fuckin vain. i'm not gonna piss around town in a little bitch box barina or fucking Kia or hyundai. i'm not a tradie. i don't need it for work. but i want a fucking man's car and i wanna drive around town and fuck guys in the back. in the words of the great Kevin Bloody Wilson, i want to be rootin' in the back of the ute



so i reckon i could use it for work. take the blue collar thing to the next level - make a mobile whorehouse and fuck them in the back of the ute. that's hot! and use sump oil to lube their arses :)

credit

"i'm finally using your name suggestion for a memoirs as the title for my blog."

"great. just what the world needs. another miserable hooker blog"

what's pumping my 'nads this week

circle of cuntyness

i hesitated a bit longer than Benji over gong private. i was caught somewhere between loyalty to the Manor, fear of the law and downright fucking laziness. then i spoke to Benji on the Phone. "i had 2 bookings yesterday, one today. i got three tomorrow and then a 5 hours booking on Tuesday night. he says he's got a huge cock the thickness of a coke can. not many guys can take it so he'll need 5 hours to get it in there" the hooker calculator in my head added 250 + (3 x 250) + (5 x 250) = i need to put my fucking ad back online!

the fear of getting done for illegal shit had scared others away too. hooker ads had vanished, but the cashed up horny motherfuckers hadn't. despite what the management at the Manor tells it's employees, the industry is quiet this time of year, but not this damn quiet! when it comes to outcalls and home deliveries, people are often screwed over by brothels recommending whores that are not what the client is looking for, just to grab to the sale.

"tonight we have Cassandra, an exotic full figured 34DD that will make all your dreams come true" Cassandra is some fat islander chick too busy brushing Dorito crumbs from her cleavage to give a decent headjob. yes she will make all your dreams come true, you are more likely to fall asleep than ejaculate

the workers get around 50% of the booking fee. therefore they do a rubbish job an push for extras just to make the money ($50-$100 for each extra like kissing, anal, any fetish stuff, blowing your load, 'fantasy' like couples and roleplay). some men are willing to pay that. most are milked for every last dollar. the worker will also drag it out with massage, chit chat or going to the bathroom. that's fine if that what the client wants and some clients do want company, or a drinking and drug buddy. while working for the brothel i even found myself milking the client for extra time. it was a chicken and egg thing. the brothel's clients would have the expectation that the worker is going to waste time and take them for a ride, so they would be so annoying and push what they could get away with annoying any future worker they hire so much that they start turning into extra-pushing time wasting asshole themselves. it becomes a cycle cuntyness that gives the industry a bad name

when i work for myself it's like every other tradesman, you quote them a price for a job, you grab your tools and you do the damn thing. sure, many situations change when you're hammering away, but stick to the original plan or you're not gonna get any jobs in the future and ruin it for anyone else gets called in

worked for myself on and off for 15years i got a fairly good reputation. so the work was rolling back in. from little chubby Japanese guys who wanted to be ass-raped to mild mannered business men who want to get ass-raped. every wants a good ass-raping and it seems to be my specialty. i just look like the kind of dirtbag who is gonna smack you around and treat you like the dirty faggot piece of shit that you are. and i am happy with that. very happy

i'm in love

found it here

dirty dawg

i managed to get along with Benji so much that we timed most of our shifts together. work felt more like hanging out a mate's place instead of home detention. unfortunately we were still making fuck all money with not even a client would come in for us to have an introduction with.

i managed to get some work. Benji had scored none.

Friday afternoon. Benji, me and some weird Canadian hooker that feels it necessary to state that he's a top. Miss Vic, the receptionist struts into the room with a flower in her beehive, "boys! intro!" as we check that our hair is perfect (or in my case, that i'm wearing my cleanest less-hole ridden wifebeater) Vic adds, "now he's a regular he normally books trannies. but because there is none her today i convinced him to have a look at the boys."

i step in first. my freshly laundered wifebeater had shrunken to a crop top and i give one final tug before i open the door to the intro lounge. the man in sitting, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. tight black jeans. pointy toed boots. a brown 80s patterned shirt. his hair bright blond is a mullet so full of volume it looks like he once played guitar for Heart. i see he in his 40s when his face looks up to me as i shake his hand. a face so weathered and leathery, it looks like a jacket potato overcooked in the microwave.

we chat, but he's too shy to be really be open about what he wants. that's the danger of going in first. most of the time the client is too nervous to say anything more than "oh... just.. you know... play around and see where it goes..." then by the 4th guy they've see who asks they no problem admitting to wanting to be fisted by a gang of midget nuns of Rollerblades. Weird Canadian goes in next. Benji goes in last. then we go and wait out the back while the receptionist asks who they would like to book and for how long. in desperate times when jobs are few and far between, this waiting period can be tense. Miss Vic opens the door "Benji. 30 minutes, love."

Benji washes his bits and heads upstairs. i find something on my phone to pretend i'm interested in so i'm not stuck talking to the weird Canadian. half an hour later Benji comes staggering down the stairs, drops into his armchair and lights a cigarette. "oh my god. i just got raped by Dog The Bounty Hunter. no playing around. no foreplay or nothing. just lay me face down and shoved it in. he had a big cock! he hammered me with it. if that's what it's like for a straight women i'm so glad i'm gay! then when he was done, he leaned down and said "better than fucking a sheila!"

that was the only job Benji got in 2 weeks. i didn't fare much better. we made the decision to break the state law and defy the Manor's rules. we were going private



dirty dawg

Benji

on one of my first shifts at the Manor i thought it would be a good idea to hang out there as much as possible. i sat there on shitty floral patterned sofa covered in grime and ash for 9 hours and made no money. so i returned later that night. there's gotta be work on a friday night, right?

no.

the kids who had also been there all day were dropping like flies into snoozy land. i met the night time crew and immediately forgot their names. when i know it's not their real name my brain forgets it straight away. one lad sat quietly chain smoking. he tossed the remote and said "you can watch whatever. i'm not watching tv." it was the first lispless male voice i'd heard at this place. his name was Benji. tall broad shouldered and thin, he rode the armchair with one leg throw over the arm and catching pokemon on his DS. i thanked him and scrolled through the hundreds of rubbish foxtel channels while we talked usual brothel talk of how much money we haven't made and how much longer we fear we will be sitting on our asses not making any more money. the conversation thinned as i scrolled through to the lifestyle channel screening Rupaul's Drag Race. i sucked in a breath of excitement. Benji looked to the tv. before i defend my excitement about a drag queen reality show he said "oh yes. i love this show. Nina Flowers is amazing."

pokemon AND drag race = best. hooker. ever

only whore in the whorehouse listening to Philip Glass

i settle in to not settling into the whorehouse. it's a great place to hang out, but not much cash rolls into this place for manwhores so a lot of time is spent sitting around and not working. i'm not the most loved, but i'm not hated. in any workplace i tend to just cruise by. i don't want to get involved in office politics. yes. even a whorehouse has office politics, office romances and the usual crap that turns me off having a real job. i just want to turn up. do my job. leave and go back to my life

most guys here are pretty. i turn up unshaven, holes in my wifebeater and a dirty John Deere cap that i use as an oily rag whenever i'm working on my bike. i fear stepping on a savage tranny's toes, not for a swift kick with a stiletto heel in the eye, but should they singe me with a cigarette while i'm wearing that cap my whole head will burst into flame

everytime i come to get buzzed in the front door the reception assumes i'm a potential client here for a tranny. "oh, it's you. i thought you were..." i look like tranny honey. the amount of hot blokey guys who come in for a tranny is heartbreaking. whenever i see a hot bike or a V8 ute in the car park i get excited only to find they're with one of the ladyboys upstairs

Gypsy. my favourite of the trannies (and of all people who work here) is a delightfully twisted girl. we have the same taste in men. big. rough. burly. hairy. she bears a nasty smirk when i shake my fists at hot client coming in only to find he wants a tranny. Gypsy struts into the intro room, knowing we can all see what goes on via CCTV, and shouts, "ooh you got big muscles!" and grabs the hot tradie by his meaty biceps. my heart breaks

i get along with just about everybody. it's nice to be different. i have no idea why people try so hard to desperately fit in and look like everybody else. that's boring and tough to maintain. when you're competing with up to six other guys for work it doesn't hurt to stand out with a beard, a hairy chest, a waist greater than 28", a few tattoos and a lisp-free voice. i may be slightly boring, but while the kids are shaking their booty to Lady Gaga's shit awful and patronizing near cover of Express Yourself, i'm quite happy to be snoozing on the sofa listening to Philip Glass

Bella's sketchbook

it didn't take long for the boredom to set in and the animals to turn on each other. the lack of work going in this Brothel over the month of Feburary and the sitting around made everybody tense. they turned on Bella.

it was bound to happen. she's an easy target. she can get on your tits. mostly her moping around and then telling you all about her life. her life that seemed more and more imaginary. Bella's Twilight obsession slowly became more apparent. the dead giveaway was admitting she believes she's a vampire

Bella was saving cash to change her name. i took a peek at the papers. her new middle name would be 'Isabella' a vast imporovement over her original (and career appropriate) surname of 'Hoare'

she is nice. she desperately wants to fit in. unfortunately her way of doing it is by wearing her heart on her sleeve. no one like her taste in clothing, especially her poorly hemmed sleeves so no one wants to see the heart bleeding on the end of it. she'd tell you things about herself you never asked and by the end of the sentence you had no interest in knowing. she doesn't have any friends. she should feel safe to make some here amongst fags and tranny whores. but she's so desperate to make some here, it will never happen. on her way out one night she said to Christoph the receptionist, a very mothering greek man, with a seriousness that alarmed him "i wish you were my dad."

after seeing my sketchbook she brought in her own one day. she conveniently left it on the kitchen table for an entire day. i pawed through it. she's quite an amazing artist. her cartoon realism is fucking spot on. unfortunately she draws the same thing over and over again: herself in her fantasy vampire life

Bella and her sketchbook 

Bella's wedding day

Bella and Ken(?) under attack

close to death, Bella is taken home to the Clan

Bella recovers from the attack

Bella is taken captive and raped. not sure where this fit in with the story or even if it is part of the fiction or her reality

the rest of the kids tore into her. but after seeing this i could no longer be mean to her at all. Miss Vic noticed i talked about her in a different way to the others. i may have been laughing at the bat-shit craziness that comes out of her mouth, but there was concern. "help the others to be nice... or at least not talk so loudly. she doesn't have the easiest life," she said "you will meet a lot of sad people in this industry"

this is the 12minute recording into a friends' phone when Bella was desperate to explain herself to the other whores so they could listen and understand her. this is pretty fucked up

Kelly is cool part II

another reason why cute little Kelly is cool. upon finding out Snookie is going to on the cover of the next issue of Rolling Stone

in a thick chinese accent "what is she doing on the cover? she has no talent! the cover should be for people with Talent like Madonna or Lady Gaga." upon hearing those two names my eyes started to glaze over, but before he could lose me completely, "none of those people should be on TV. like Kim Kardashian. what does she do? nothing! she's only famous for having a big ass and sex tape!"

any friend of Joel McHale is a friend of mine!

i feel better

in the whore's lounge, the kids love to listen to music television. Channel [V] playing non-stop P!nk, Chris Brown, Rihanna after Rihanna and whatever fucking tedious club track they're over plugging that week. it's agony. the second a bad track starts someone pipes up and says "oh i love this track!" the cutest being Kelly, an adorable south asian tranny who goes apeshit for Usher's abs

So imagine my excitement when a video comes on that i love. Hot Chip's I Feel Better. the track maybe taking the piss out of popular RnB but "i love this video!" i scream. everyone in the lounge turned to look at me. i had been mostly quiet since starting at the Manor. i managed to not be a jerk or piss anyone off. whores aren't dumb and they're as nosey as hell. they wanted to know why the quiet guy suddenly got so excited

Peter Steno..something..witz. all i know is he's the uptight flatmate in Sean of The Dead who had a short lived british comedy show of his own directed one of my favourite videos of all time

the first minute is a typical boy band style of four pretty boys up on stage. they keep watching, not quite sure what's supposed to be so great. Jarrod looks at me, squints and turns back to see the little bald man appear. "who's that?" "what's going on?" "what's that guy doing?" "he's creepy. eww..." then the weird little man shoots each boy band member his mouth laser, ressurects them to form a five member band impressing the crowd before a giant head floats into the room with bulging eyes burns everyone to a pile of ash


the video ends. everyone is speechless. they either looks at me confused or look around the room waiting for the joke. a joke i got. i'm laughing. no one else is.

i don't fit in here... thank fuck