‘I wasn’t sure I was in the right place’

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

I stare at the scrap of paper in my hand with an address scribbled on it before glancing back up at the building. This can’t be the place. I must have written it down wrong.

He called me from a payphone so I don’t have a number to call him back. Should I just wait around, hope he gets impatient and see if he calls? Or maybe he wants me to wait here and he’s going to pick me up in his car? I have no idea what my client for the evening intended by sending me to this place. But I’m fairly certain that whatever’s on the menu for tonight, it’s not supposed to be happening in a Chinese restaurant.

It’s a chilly January evening in Toronto and the streets are a mess of slush from the snow that fell earlier today. I stare across the parking lot to the front door of the restaurant. Is it possible he really did want to meet here? The place is dark, except for a few strands of blinking Christmas lights in the windows. At this point, I have nothing to lose, so before I trudge back to the subway and head downtown, I might as well take a look to see if anyone is around.

Standing at the front door, I peer inside. I can see rows of black tables with jars of chopsticks, napkin dispensers and bottles of soy sauce neatly arranged on them. A bit of light filters in from the kitchen, but there’s no hint of life.

Suddenly a man walks out of the back of the restaurant and towards me. He pauses a few feet from the door, surveying the parking lot for a sign of anyone else, before hurriedly opening the door and ushering me in with a wave of his hand — this must be the place after all.

I follow him back towards the kitchen and then he turns and just stares at me. He’s tiny and chubby, with coarse black hair deliberately swooped back with a generous amount of mousse. I’d guess he’s in his 50s, but I can’t be sure. We stand, silently staring at each other until I finally decide to break the tension.

“I wasn’t sure I was in the right place,” I say with a smile, trying to make a joke.

He doesn’t say anything.

“So, this is where you wanted to . . . meet?” I say, surveying the space.

It looks like a family business, probably opened in the 1950s, with handwritten menus on the wall, paper decorations of beaming animals with wide eyes, and a large fish tank bubbling in the corner.

There’s obviously no bed, not even a couch. Maybe there’s a room in the back? Or maybe we are supposed to meet here and then go somewhere else? Right now he seems incapable of speech. Does he just want me to leave? That happens sometimes. Prospective clients can get wrapped up in the fantasy of what it’s going to be like being with a guy for the first time. But when the opportunity presents itself, they freeze.

“Did you want to . . . um . . . ” I pause, looking around. “Where were you thinking we would . . . um . . . do it?”

He’s still silent. I guess he didn’t think this through very well. Was he imagining we’d do it standing up?

“Maybe if you have a blanket or a towel or something, we can just lie on the floor?” I say.

He nods, walks to the back and returns with what I’m guessing is the kitchen fire blanket. Safety first. He pushes some chairs out of the way and lays it down between the tables. I put my arms around him and pull him into me. I’m thinking I’ll go in for first kiss but he just places his head on my chest like we’re slow dancing. Cautiously, I ease him down to the floor. He lies back on the blanket and I curl up next to him.

His eyes are closed and his body is totally stiff. I unbutton his shirt slowly and run my hand up and down his hairless chest. He doesn’t make a move to touch me at all. I slide my hand down to his crotch and I can feel his cock is hard. Normally with this kind of passive vibe I’d just assume someone wants a more dominating character. But he seems so tense, so closed off to the experience, I don’t want to freak him out, so I just lie beside him.

This is typically the kind of situation where I might try to initiate some dialogue, just to get the person relaxed. But, as best as I can tell from our previous phone conversation, his English is pretty limited. Instead of speaking, I just lie next to him, running my hand up and down his body, staring at his face for some sign of pleasure. His dick indicates that he’s turned on but besides that, he seems more like he’s bracing himself for an uncomfortable medical procedure than getting ready for a sexual experience.

Our phone conversation had been hurried, in part because of the language barrier and in part because he seemed rushed. I’d assumed that meant he knew what he was getting into. In my experience, virgins usually want to take more time to talk. Experienced guys, even if they’re extremely closeted, tend to be more straight to the point. But unless his idea of a pleasurable sexual experience is lying completely motionless while someone strokes his chest, I’m guessing this is the first time he’s done this.

Whenever I realize I’ve got a virgin on my hands, I put a special priority on trying to make sure they have a good time. If they don’t enjoy themselves with me, my fear is that they’ll think it means there’s something wrong with them. I’m always happy to talk through those things, assuming there’s an interest in having the conversation. But right now it seems like all I can do is get him off and hope the experience gives him what he needs.

I unzip his pants, pull them gently down and start to fondle his cock through his white cotton briefs. I ease them down, letting it spring free, and he gasps.

“Suck,” he says, his eyes still closed.

I smile.

“You want me to suck you?” I say.

“Yes.”

The other thing with virgins, no matter their age, is that you want to avoid getting them off too quickly. The sexual energy can be so intense that they shoot right away and then they lose out on the pleasure that can come with delaying orgasm. I take his cock in my hand and begin to gently stroke it. He moans and his head arches back.

“You suck!” he yells, like he’s warning me of an impending emergency.

Okay. Fine. Have it your way.

I sit up and bend to bring my face to his crotch. My lips are barely touching him when he shoots in my mouth. He lies back, panting softly. I guess we’re done?

After a minute, he pulls his pants up and we stand. He fishes around in his pocket, and then hands me a crumpled wad of bills with a silent nod. Whether he’s conflicted, elated, or riddled with guilt, there’s not going to be any discussion of how he feels right now. That kind of work is usually included as part of my fee. But I can see by his demeanour that he doesn’t want a therapy session. He just wants me to leave.

We walk to the door and he lets me out without a wave or a kiss. Halfway across the slushy parking lot I turn to look back, but he’s already gone from the window. Was this the first time he’s ever been with a man? Will it be the last? Did he enjoy it at all? These aren’t the kinds of questions I can answer. And probably neither can he.

I brace myself against the wind and start walking back to the subway.