PAYING FOR IT
Touring New Zealand, Ben Croker’s parents were foolish enough to leave him in a hotel room alone with a wallet full of cash and an advertisement for a hot time with a male hustler.
I lost my virginity to a male prostitute in New Zealand while on holiday with my parents. But let’s clarify exactly what I mean by “virginity”. As a teenager in the mid-’80s I was very actively pursuing the hormone-addled straight boys at my expensive private school… so I had already sucked my fair share of dick. But throughout university (long before sex was on tap at Gaydar, Grindr or Squirt) I remained firmly in the closet. My sex life in those days consisted of a very vivid imagination and whatever I could think of to do with my right hand, a pillow or a combination of both!
By the age of 25, I still had never experienced what it felt like to fuck or be fucked. Then, in 1997, the opportunity arose to visit New Zealand. My parents were to attend a conference in Christchurch and we drove down there from Auckland exploring the North Island along the way. When we hit the picturesque town of Wellington, I was so enchanted that I decided to stay there for a few extra days on my own.
One of the benefits to travelling with my parents was that we always stayed at nice hotels. Here I was in a foreign country where nobody knew me, with a luxurious hotel room all to myself and a wallet full of New Zealand dollars – the time and circumstances were right. I was going to buy me some sex!
I reassured myself that I was as ready as I was ever going to be as I eagerly flicked through the freshly delivered newspaper in search of the personal pages. In among advertisements for a “mature busty blonde” and “ladies to suit all tastes” sat a simple two line ad that really caught my attention: “MAN TO MAN Gym Instructor. Hot time guaranteed.”
It took me most of the day to build up the courage to call. I practiced lowering my voice and rehearsed exactly what I was going to say. I dialed a couple of times but hung up. Eventually, I walked over and picked up the phone, determined this time to actually speak. “Mike” could sense my obvious nervousness. I told him exactly what I wanted – to kiss him, to explore his body… and then to fuck him. His warm, sexy voice and Kiwi accent put me at ease. He stated the price for his “full service” and we agreed to meet at my hotel room at 8:30pm.
I was panicked with anticipation and terror. I had no idea what to wear! Which seemed kind of odd given that the whole point was to get naked. I then had to find condoms and lube, just in case he didn’t come prepared with the tools of his trade. I found a
The time and circumstances were right. I was going to buy me some sex!
convenience store for the necessary supplies and grabbed a bottle of mouthwash, too. I felt that everybody I walked past was staring, knowing and judging me for what I was about to do. I quickly shuffled back to the hotel, loot in hand.
The wait that followed seemed like an interminable lifetime. I counted every passing second; showered, fixed my hair, gargled (twice) and got dressed in the carefully pre-selected jeans and T-shirt. At exactly 8.25pm I went and stood at the hotel room door, squashed my face against it and peered out through the peephole. I ended up with a massive headache from squinting through that damned peephole for so long! It didn’t help that the clock had now ticked past 9pm without so much as a room service waiter making an appearance in the hallway.
I was beginning to think I had been stood up and my disappointment was palpable. Then suddenly he appeared in my view – distorted like some sort of circus fun-park mirror all fish-eyed and bulbous. He knocked. I took a deep breath, opened the door and there he was… mid-30s, smiling, gorgeous, masculine – exactly what I had imagined.
After apologizing for being “held up at the gym”, we made small talk and I paid his full-service fee. He knew this was my first time with a real man, not just sucking off some pussy-obsessed schoolboy. He stood close to me as he unbuttoned his long sleeved shirt. His honey-coloured skin was smooth except for the day old growth on his perfectly chiseled chin. He took my hand and placed it on his muscled chest. I felt his heart beating through my fingers as my own pulse raced. I stared longingly into his deep brown eyes and he returned an understanding smile. He leaned forward and kissed me slowly. His face felt like sandpaper against mine, and I loved it.
My hand slipped down his rippled abdomen to unbuckle his belt like an eager child ripping open a Christmas present. His sandpaper kisses spread down my neck, tickling and thrilling as his pants slumped to the floor. I had one layer of my gift left to unwrap, but I wanted to savour every square centimetre of what stood before me – a real man in every sense of the word. I kept my clothes on for as long as possible, fearing that I would somehow spontaneously combust if our naked bodies were to touch. But he was a gentle, knowing and patient lover and as he led me to the bed, any fears or anxieties I had quickly faded into waves of pure unadulterated pleasure.
The 90 minutes of quality time spent that night with a male prostitute opened my eyes to what I had been missing out on. It sent me moving forward on a path of self-discovery that has led me to where I am today – an out and proud (and occasionally still sexually active!) gay man.
I love going back to New Zealand, and even kept his original newspaper advert as a memento of that night. I don’t look at it often, but occasionally I will drag it out of the drawer and wonder how my life might have been different if I hadn’t grasped that opportunity (literally) with both hands. One thing I can be absolutely certain about – that was the best $NZ150 I ever spent!