I Was a 20 Year Old Pimp
When I was in Florida trying to sell ads for the Barb I worked for I met a male madam who ran a callboy service in Southern FL.
Miami is the only city I've seen that matches West Hollywood for shabby glitz and whorish tackiness. Los Angeles is redeemed by objects, places and people you won't see elsewhere. Miami is the metastatic growth of malignant tourism. So when I hit Miami trying to sell advertising for the gay newspaper that I worked for in Atlanta I knew on sight that I'd never want to live there.
Most of the people I approached with my hand out were bar owners. They've always been the mainstay of regional gay newspapers. I also called on the owner of Party Boys. It was a South Florida call boy service. He was my age, early 20s. You've seen those ads aimed at lazy stupid people: earn money at home in your spare time. That is what he made the business sound like.
Wanting to expand to Atlanta he asked if I'd be interested. I had no scruples about prostitution. It was likely to help some people be happy, stay sane. And I was tickled by it. As much as I was enjoying my own sexuality at the time I thought most people made too big a deal of it. I couldn't help but smile.
I said maybe.
Returning to Atlanta I talked about it to the paper's publisher. Bill Smith. It was an exceedingly simple business, requiring little more than prudence. We decided we could do it on our own. I don't remember how I came up with youngman, incorporated or why our lawyer said we should incorporate
There was no competition. There was "Roger the Masseur" who'd been advertising in The Advocate for ages. But he was only one guy.
Talking to the wannabe whores was the crucial part. Some I knocked off because they were hostile and het-identified. Others because they obviously didn't have skills for dealing with people. Or were too stupid to trust. The most memorable example of the last was a black man with the biggest penis I've ever seen. All by himself he could've created the folklore about black vs. white genital size.
I'd test their capacity to treat themselves as product by telling them they'd have to sleep with me to get the job. But they didn't really. I wanted to preserve their trust and respect. There was a boy who was very embodiment of sweet young blonde twinkness who sorely tempted me.
Mark, someone I'd known for a couple of years, was the first guy I hired. He wasn't good looking. But he was always cheerful and amiable. And he could fake an orgasm. Keeping the client relaxed and making him feel liked counted more than physical beauty.
Operations were straightforward. The client would call. I'd tell him the fees and ask what kind of guy he wanted. Then I'd send him whoever was available. Often the guy available did not match the clients fantasy. Since I made a point of only hiring likable guys this was never a problem.
The first guy I ever slept with tried working for me. He wasn't that good at it. He was too romantic to be a boy hooker.
The guys who worked for me were all well adjusted: commercial artists, K-Mart managers. They were comfortable with sex and needed extra cash.
I did this for a time but eventually got sick of Bill. He got the business and I was penniless. But I'd have a good time being broke. Some entertaining adventures.
I learned later that Bill had started overdosing with sleeping pills and calling people he knew and telling them that he was committing suicide. He did this once too often and died in the hospital parking lot.