Gay Comfort

I was a lesbian rent boi’

‘“Come back to my hotel room. I’ll pay you”’. It wasn’t what I’d expected the elegant, older woman standing next to me in the busy West End lesbian bar to say, and I was aghast.

‘"Look, I know you like me", she continued casually, "and I may not be what you're looking for tonight, but if I make it worth your while, how about it?"

‘How about it? I was 22 years old. At school I'd been taught to make money with my head, not my body. My brain was humming like a clapped-out old engine as I considered my options and she lavished me with charming banter.

‘"Come back to my hotel room. I'll give you £200". It galls me to say that the money made a difference to my conduct, but it did - £200 was a lot of money to me then for a night's work. I was a student lawyer, and it was more money than I'd made in the previous month pulling pints at my local pub. Reader, after some deliberation, I consented.

The sex was surprisingly good. She was no ‘do me' queen. I wouldn't have expected her to go down on me, but I took what was on offer

‘The hotel was chic; she - let's call her Eve - was visiting the UK on business and I got the impression that everything was on expenses. We drank white wine from the well-stocked mini bar before moving on to the crisp, white linen bed sheets. The sex was surprisingly good. She wasn't just after a suitor, either - she was no "do me" queen - which I found challenging. If I'd been a man, I reckon I'd have been expected to ‘service' the client and then leave. I wouldn't have expected her to go down on me, but I took what was on offer. After we'd fucked ourselves to a fairly pleasant semi-conscious state, I suggested I should probably go. Eve, however, had other ideas. "There's no need", she said in an accent I couldn't quite place. "Stay for the night".

‘The next morning, I got up early for a tort lecture, tucking the four freshly-minted £50 notes into my back pocket. She'd be staying at the hotel all week, she remarked as she watched me tying the laces on my leather Campers - would I like to replay last night later in the week?

‘This time around, it was a no-brainer. A few nights later I joined her in her suite and received another £200 for my services, and the following night she bought me dinner. It was a lovely night - the restaurant French and ‘nouvelle'
- and she paid for everything, right down to the Marc brandy that sealed the end of our sexually-charged meal. Once again, we got down to what she termed "business" for another passionate few hours in her boutique bedroom.

‘In the morning, when we woke up, she reached into her handbag for her wallet.
I saw the wad of 50s and felt a pang of guilt - I was having a great time, and I felt guilty about being paid for it. "But you've earned it", she purred. And somehow that made my blood boil. The moment of awful truth had dawned; I was a rent boi! Undeterred, she slipped out from under the covers leaving a pile of reddish notes on the bedside table. And there they sat until the end of the week, by which time I counted up £600. On our last morning together, once we'd said our goodbyes I tried to leave without pocketing the cash. "This is yours", she chided, stuffing the folded notes into my hand.

‘Part of me wanted the £600 - who wouldn't? - but now was not the time for principles. Looking me directly in the eye, she said gently, "You're young; you need the money. Just take it". She didn't actually say that it was all on expenses, but I'm sure it was.

‘That was five years ago and, until recently, I'd kept my tryst a secret because I was worried about other people's reactions. At the start of our assignation, I remembered I'd felt a bit cocky, but as I replayed our week of sex I began to feel guilty - as if I'd demeaned myself. If sex had been my métier, I would probably have been far more accepting of the experience - but it was a one-off. About a year on I considered doing it again as a way of making money, but I didn't have the balls to go through with it without encouragement from the right women.

‘Five years later I told very close friends and, on the whole, their reactions were positive. One so-called pal hasn't talked to me since, which shocked me, but it taught me who my true friends are. And looking back now, I'd say my week with Eve was a positive experience. I earned £1000 for only five nights'
work. We had no chemistry, but she wasn't unattractive. But there are women I wouldn't touch if they were dipped in honey and coated in marshmallows, so I don't know if I could have done it regularly.

‘It never crossed my mind at the time that I might some day be in Eve's position - but I guess if there were a young dyke I fancied and she wasn't otherwise interested, maybe I'd offer her a financial incentive too.

‘But you have to be really confident in yourself to offer someone money for sex. Eve had a sexy resoluteness about her: she knew what she wanted and didn't give a thought to the possibility that I might mock her advances. She was looking for uncomplicated sex and that's what she got from me.

So no, I don't regret my week with Eve. But for those of you who are tempted to do the same, consider the emotional repercussions and suss out whether or not she's trouble before you say yes - whatever side of the business deal you're on.

‘I'd always been told - and believed, unthinkingly - that prostitutes and the people who pay for their services were, somewhat simplistically, bad. But now I think it's a valid way to make a living if you can cope with it and keep safe. Eve was a good woman who treated me with respect. It certainly brings a wry smile to my lips whenever I walk past the hotel. I've never heard from Eve - I'd recognise her if I saw her, but I wouldn't go and say hello. I might smile at her, though.

‘Selling my body to her has made me wonder how often these rendezvous between women take place. I'm not special: average looks, average body - so who else is at it? In the lesbian community, we don't have visible escorts. I've probably met some, but not knowingly. It's changed my perspective; sometimes I'll walk into a dyke bar and wonder who's working - and who's paying.'