‘Even in the most anonymous situation, a reliable erection requires some kind of connection’

This article by Devon Delacroix was originally published in Xtra Magazine as part of the Hard Labour column.

I thought it would be more like a porn movie. And it does have all the ingredients: six naked guys, a king-size bottle of lube, a club pack of condoms, and a seventh participant on his knees, a pillowcase over his head.

We’re in a generic bachelor apartment that could be the backdrop of a low-grade wank flick. It’s a gangbang for sure. But with the half-hearted moves most of my compatriots are making, it seems clear that none of us are that into what’s going on.

Three days earlier, I received a text asking if I wanted to participate in the afternoon’s events. The message comes, not from the guy on his knees, but an escort (his regular boy I’m assuming), who says he’s coordinating a group to take turns fucking his patron.

The date is expected to last an hour. The fee he’s offering is average. But, since, I’m going to be one among many, the actual working minutes I have to put in will be small. I agree to his terms and tell him to send me details the day of.

The door to the apartment opens and I’m greeted by a twink-looking guy I don’t recall having seen online before. It’s always interesting to meet other escorts. Back then, when people worked at bars and on street corners, there was a greater sense of community in the business. Guys could chat and compare war stories. But by the time I was entering the industry, the internet was the go-to place for selling sex, and public spaces had become a place for those who don’t have a free online ad and a pay-as-you go phone.

I’m curious to know more about my host, but that’s not why I’m here.

He ushers me down a narrow hallway. To my right, there’s a small room with a double bed, a heavy-set man with a hairy ass perched on the edge and two guys in underwear with deep spray-on tans, fingering his hole. The scene is bathed in light from a porn movie playing on a TV hanging on the opposite wall. The spray-on guys look up at me and nod. I’ve seen one of them online before.

I usually start a session by chatting the client up, trying to ignite some chemistry. Since the guy paying me doesn’t even want to see me, he’s probably even less interested in a conversation. I take off my shorts and T-shirt, carefully folding them into my backpack, and step into the bathroom to try to get myself hard.

Erections aren’t usually a problem. What a client looks like doesn’t matter. But, there are certain situations where wood comes less easily. High-level arrogance is a turn off, as are non-consensual aggression and judgmental attitudes. On the plus side, a novel situation can be an erotic jolt — a wood-panelled suburban basement, the back of a van parked on a sketchy cul-de-sac, the floor of a Chinese restaurant.

But here, in a space where there’s going to be a bunch of other escorts, I feel slightly intimidated. What if I don’t measure up? What if they think I’m too thin? Not attractive enough? My fuck technique lacking? Whatever. I’m not here for them. I’m here for the guy with the pillowcase on his head. I close my eyes, jerk myself until I’m hard and step back into the room.

I hadn’t heard them come in. But the size of the party has now doubled, with three other attendees joining us. Heads are nodded but introductions are ignored. We all know we aren’t here to get to know each other.

Now that the complete crew has arrived, our host indicates we should get started. So what exactly is supposed to happen? Are we doing a group role-play and this guy is our helpless victim? Maybe a sort of sports initiation? A punishment of some kind? Our host hasn’t provided details, so maybe we just take turns with his ass and leave. I wonder if it’s his birthday?

The guy I initially recognized begins fucking the client, rather deftly in fact. He’s a bit shorter and so he has to balance himself on the edge of the bed rather than stand on the floor to be able to nail his ass. The rest of us pull at our dicks, occasionally glancing at the TV, which is currently showing a scene not unlike what our host probably wanted.

But what’s strange about all of it is just how bland it feels. A quick survey of the dicks reveals no one is fully hard. I guess I’m not the only one not turned on.

As the first guy pulls out, the other guy who was here when I arrived takes his place. At this point I’m almost completely flaccid, so I head back to the bathroom to stiffen up.

Standing at the sink, staring at myself in the mirror, I start to get nervous. Why am I struggling to stay hard? I would have thought it would be easy with the other guys around. But maybe they’re part of the problem.

Even though a few of them are cute, I can’t help but feel like I’m being asked to perform for an audience. My focus here is supposed to be the guy on the bed. And if that was the only thing on my mind, I’m sure I’d be fine. But the detached nature of the scene is leaving me cold. If there’s any solace, it’s that nearly everyone else seems to have the same level of ambivalence I do.

I shake off my hesitation, jerk myself again until I’m hard, and head back into the main room. The first two guys have backed off and a beefy younger guy with stars tattooed on his arm is at it.

Hoping to preserve my erection long enough to get in, I squeeze in next to him and roll a condom on. He nods to me and pulls out, allowing me to take his place.

I’d assume anyone who books this kind of session is an experienced bottom. But the guy’s ass is especially relaxed. I probably could have gone in flaccid. Realizing his level of openness means he won’t feel much from penetration alone, I grab his hips and start thrusting harder into him, my pelvis slamming against his ass. He moans a little, and I keep fucking him, trying to give observers the impression I’m a pornstar-level lay. As I pull out, I turn quickly to the wall, sliding the condom off my mostly flaccid dick and pulling my underwear up.

The first guy who started fucking comes back for a second turn, followed by his friend, while the rest of us look on. After the friend pulls out, they both step to the side and begin to dress. Does that mean we’re done? I watch our host hand each of them an envelope and they exit. I step past him into the hall, heading to the bathroom to try to get myself hard a third time.

“Did you come?” he whispers.

I shake my head.

“After you come, you can leave.”

Okay. I get it now. There’s light at the end of this unsexy tunnel — and that light is a faked orgasm. Returning from the bathroom hard for a third time, I ease in next to a slim hairy guy, who’s currently on fuck duty.

He steps back to allow me entry. I start to thrust, silently counting out three minutes in my head, before I moan and pull out, not even close to ejaculating.

I nod at the host and walk past him to the bathroom again. There, I give my dick a quick rinse and return to the hall where I start pulling my clothes on. I don’t know if any of the other guys actually achieved orgasm, but they’re all currently dressing, including a muscle-bound, 30-something guy that I don’t think actually did any fucking at all.

Our host hands out the envelopes one by one and we silently leave. In the elevator, I realize the two muscle guys know each other, having worked at the same strip club for a while. The slim guy looks down, not making eye contact with any of us. At the front door, we all nod, not bothering to trade names at this point, and walk in separate directions.

I’ve had plenty of anonymous sex in saunas and parks. I’ve done scenes where I arrive to find an unlocked door and a pre-lubed ass perched at dick level on a bed. But in all those situations, even if I don’t know anything about the person, there’s still a level of intimacy. The detached nature of this gangbang, that I was just one in a line of dicks, just didn’t do it for me. This afternoon’s session has reminded me, even in the most anonymous situation, a reliable erection requires some kind of connection.