“I LOST MONEY SELLING MYSELF!”
WHILE SOME KIDS DREAM OF MAKING THE BIG TIME, SAM JARVIS DREAMED OF BECOMING A PROSTITUTE. BLAME IT ON JULIA ROBERTS.
I’d drink myself into a classy mess at gay clubs, scouring beer-stained venues in the hope of finding decent cock, or any cock by the end of the night.
I’ve always had a curious interest in the world of prostitution. Whether it’s from being the kid who grew pubic hair a year early or being the boy who performed over-sexualised rumpus room renditions of the song Naked while watching Spice Girls Live In Istanbul, I’m not sure. Perhaps it was growing up in a small country town where the lure of the bright lights and big city had me imagining scenarios of strutting the streets and pulling tricks. If only I’d gone through with my bulletproof plan to run away from home at the age of 16 and take up prostitution I’d have so much more to write about…
This isn’t to say that I haven’t pulled the odd trick over the years. I went through a stage at the age of 20 when I was living in Kings Cross. I’d drink myself into a classy mess at clubs on Oxford Street, scouring beer-stained venues in the hope of finding decent cock, or any cock by the end of the night. When I had become so messy that not even the wrinkly man with the moustache and studded ears lurking in the corner of the bar would take advantage of my generous offers, I’d stumble to The Wall, a spot for men to pull off other men in exchange for cash. Hustling, I believe it’s called.
I’d drunkenly stumble along in the hope someone would deem me desirable enough to fuck and hopefully not murder in the process. Only twice did I manage to pull a trick. My first time was easy as all I had to do was pull out my cock and jerk off to the beady eyes of a sixty-year-old. I told everyone he paid me $100, but really it was only $50. My second interlude was with someone barely visible through particularly foggy beer goggles as I gave head before some bandit roared through the alleyway holding a knife to my throat and demanding money. I only had ten dollars on me, which he seemed satisfied with. Having lost ten dollars selling myself, I decided to retire and waved goodbye to my short-lived career in the realm of prostitution.
As an adult, I’ve always lived in the in-yourface kind of neighbourhoods. I’m currently in Melbourne’s St Kilda, which isn’t short of its pimps or hos. Drugs, in most cases, are sadly at the center of it and prostitution is but a means to an end. Perhaps I can blame Julia Roberts for so flawlessly bagging a rich dude as hot and fuckable as Richard Gere while undergoing the transformation from seedy hooker to classy Rodeo Drive corporate escort, bitch slapping snotty shop owners with hilarious witticisms and being ‘saved’ from the grim reality of prostitution by finding her Mr Right. Is it Julia I blame or is it the desire to feel needed or even loved? Is it the fact we’re obsessed with sex or merely that we’re told so often that sex sells?
In the end, I’d make a hopeless prostitute. I’m far too selfish and, to be honest, I’m not desperate enough for the cash. Not to mention I’m a fraidy cat when it comes to requesting money (and putting a price on one’s self can be hard). I pray for those with little choice and wish them well. I also wish well those who choose prostitution as an occupation and are comfortable with that choice. Deep down, I’m still the curious over-sexualised child I once was but the only cock I now suck for money is that of the hospitality industry – a means to an end until I’m one day as rich and famous as Julia Roberts… post-Pretty Woman makeover with Richard Gere draped around my arms – obviously.