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I remember my last experience with a whore all too well. He was one of the most gorgeous men I've ever seen. I desperately wanted to fuck his perfect little ass. In about two seconds I ended up covered in shit, didn't get off, and then got overcharged. And thus I learned my great lesson about using the services of rent boys-- they're like buying a used car. Sometimes you get a fair deal and a smooth ride, and sometimes you get a shit-flavored lemon, all depending on a bit of luck and the character of the salesman you happen to get.

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I sat down and talked candidly with three hustlers about the "used car business," about johns, and about how they got into "the life." I think what they had to say reveals as much about how the world works as it does about prostitution.

I'LL START WITH the Lincoln Towncar of whores. His name is Brad. He's a handsome, muscular, 30-year-old with a brain. He arrives for our interview wearing tight black jeans, a form-fitting black t-shirt, black cowboy boots, and a full-length black leather coat with a matching wide- brimmed black leather hat. The look has trouble-with-class written all over it, and definitely works as a turn on. He decides at the last minute to leave the pet Rottweiler with a propensity for killing small animals at home.

"What do you want to know?" he says to me as he sits down. "I've got an hour, then I have to go."

"Well, tell me your story," I say. And with that he's off and doesn't stop for the next hour.

His story begins a lot like the stereotypes about prostitutes would have you expect. Troubled teenaged kid with "problem" parents. At 16, he found himself recovering in the psychiatric ward after a failed suicide attempt. As fate would have it, it was there he met another guy who told him about the boys' stroll where he could make money and find a degree of independence-- of a sort, at least.

He says life as a teenaged prostitute was all about survival and escape, and escape meant drugs. Hard ones. He eventually got into needles and coke. He also found johns who were willing to give him a place to stay, and johns willing to trade drugs for sex. It couldn't have been a lot of fun, but Brad tells this part of the story matter-of-factly.

He stabilized for a time after a few years, finding himself a boyfriend and job. For a time things stayed on an even keel. "But monogamy is not a natural human condition," Brad says, and the relationship eventually ended for that reason. Over the next several years his life began to spiral out of control. "I almost killed myself several times from accidental drug overdoses," he tells me. He eventually came to the conclusion that things couldn't go on this way, and, at the age of 27, moved back in with his parents in Florida, tail between his legs.

It was a good move. Brad got off the drugs and started putting weight back on. He got to the gym, pumped iron, and developed a beautifully sculpted body. Brad says nothing of what it was like to be back with his parents, or whether the "bigots," as he calls them, knew he had been hustling or not.

He stayed for almost two years rebuilding himself, then decided it was time to leave and come back to Toronto. He set out alone on his bicycle with a few bucks in his pocket and headed for "home." My cool and composed interview subject grows suddenly teary-eyed as he tells me the story of the journey that followed. I'm careful to show no reaction. There was no money for hotels and other luxuries, so he slept where he could find shelter, often finding refuge in unlocked cars for the night. "When I arrived in New York," he recounts "I looked around and everything was so big. I felt like nothing, nobody," he says with a tear streaming down the side of his face.

He did manage to make it all the way back to Toronto, although dead broke by the time he hit city limits. He remembers being impressed by the polish of the city that he said once "sucked the life" out of him. But he had nowhere to go, and nowhere to turn. He couldn't find an unlocked car to sleep in and began to feel endangered and scared. He wandered the city aimlessly until he finally found an unlocked apartment building where he could sleep in the stairwell.

By chance he met up with an old friend who let him stay over and he got to sleep in a bed for the first time in months. The memory once again triggering tears. Those early days back in Toronto weren't easy. Being broke, unemployed and feeling somewhat hopeless was taking a toll on him. Then he caught a break.

Brad landed himself a job as a porn star for a local Internet company which sells live sex shows to providers all around the world. That gave him some money, but not quite enough. He then saw an ad for a high-end escort agency in the paper, one that charges clients up to $300 an hour. Brad got hired on. He also found a part-time job working at a local sex club. He was soon back on his feet.

Looking at him today, you would never know he used to be a near-dead street junkie with no future. But his success and his security depend on his good looks, and looks, by convention, don't last. So I ask him what he's going to do when his youth start to fade. "I don't know. I don't have a clue. But it doesn't scare me," he says with absolute confidence.

Does he like his work? Brad lives well, enjoys good food and good fun, but he rather glosses over questions about johns and the nature of prostitution. For instance I asked him about his worst date. "They're all good. They're all fun," he replies and then quickly changes the subject. Brad definitely comes across as a decent guy and it would be hard not to like him. He may not be worried about his future, but by the end of the interview, I find myself wondering what's in the stars for him.

NOW MEET MIKE. Mike is a tall, good-looking 23-year-old charmer with blond hair, blue eyes, and a perfectly hairless swimmer's body. He's as nice a guy as you could ask for, but he's still your basic budget car lot. And let the buyer beware because you get what you pay for. He works exclusively out of one of Toronto's seedier bathhouses, and your basic date will cost you between $40-$60 depending on how well- off you look. I used Mike's services a couple of times back in the days when I was a busy television reporter with more money than time and using prostitutes was fast and efficient compared to cruising for sex.

I walked in wearing an expensive suit so I was a prime target for one of Mike's charm offensives. They seldom fail him, and easily worked on me. I think I would have been considered an easy date, asking only for your basic oral. But it didn't go so smoothly. He would stop at regular, ten-second intervals and ask me if I was close. It was clear that he wanted to do as little as possible and get it over with as fast as he could. I felt guilty because it was clear he didn't want to be doing what he was doing. It wasn't good, and it wasn't fun. I only did it with him again because he really knows how to do a good sell job, if not a blow-job.

But he intrigued me as a person, so I sat down with him and asked for his "story." He was happy to talk, and the first thing he wanted me to know was that he was definitely straight as an arrow. Sex with guys is business, nothing more. He says he's never once slept with another man for fun-- not ever, and he never will. I think it's natural for anyone to be skeptical of such a claim. After all, can you really be totally straight and get it up for a steady stream of men? But I let it go.

Other than the hustling, he does have an otherwise straight life. A long- term relationship with a woman, and a kid. She doesn't know what he does for money and he says he could never tell her. He's very careful to keep everything a secret, even phoning ahead to the baths so they can let him in the back door so no one will see him coming or going. "But doesn't she wonder where you get your money?" I ask him. "She thinks I'm a drug dealer," he says with a smile. But the smile disappears when he says she would leave him and take their son if she found out, and he really doesn't want that.

So why, I wonder, does he do it if the stakes are so high and he doesn't like it? Because, he explains, life's like that, and the options are worse. He had high hopes a few years ago when he was 20 and just graduating high school (he was a little behind because he dropped out for a bit.) His grades were good and he was accepted to university and planned eventually to go to law school. Only problem was he made a few bad choices with his credit cards and screwed up his credit rating. That meant he couldn't get student loans. He didn't have rich parents who could just hand him an education, so that was the end of it. He couldn't afford to go.

His girlfriend got pregnant and now he found himself in a real fix. He had adult responsibilities to live up to. With only a high school education there weren't many career opportunities for him. Certainly not ones that paid more than minimum wage and weren't completely shitty working conditions. So he secretly started go-go dancing at the local strip club for gay men. He made a lot of money at first and thought his problem was solved. "But that only lasted a short time," he says "until I wasn't new meat anymore and the regulars got bored with me."

The other dancers, many of whom also claim to be straight, introduced him to the idea of selling sex to other men. "At first I thought there was no way I could do it. Then I realized I would either have to suck cock or flip burgers. Sucking cock paid more and the hours were better," he explains.

"But still?," I ask him "you don't like it." "No," he says "I don't like it. But doesn't almost everybody hate their jobs?" Besides, he explains, he doesn't have some neurotic tyrannical boss on his back all day long. "And," he says "most importantly, I'm my own government. I set the terms. I'm my own regulator" Fair enough, I conclude, and leave it alone.

NOW FOR THE MOST atypical of all hustlers. Gerald. Gerald is an average- looking 56-year-old with slightly thinning, graying hair and moustache and glasses that make him look a bit dopey. He's in better shape than most men his age because he keeps up with his gym routine. He's the Studebaker of whores-- high mileage, but still reliable, with good tires.

I have to be fair to my readers and tell you that Gerald and I have been friends for a number of years, although that's more of a disadvantage to him in this article than an advantage because it means I know too much.

Gerald is also a full-time journalist. That's how we met. He picked up on a story I had been writing about and did a piece of his own on it. At the time, aside from his discreet moonlighting as a prostitute, he was the model of respectability. An established, award-winning writer published by all the major Canadian newspapers and magazines. He was also a part- time journalism professor at Ryerson Polytechnic University. That was then.

Seemingly out of the blue, one day one of Toronto's right-wing rags ran a story about how Gerald had published an article on intergenerational sex many years ago. A controversy erupted that put him in the spotlight and before long there were more headlines about how he was also a prostitute. We're not talking about a little controversy-- forests were felled in the debate over the "hooker prof." Ryerson University wimped out under pressure and canned him, leaving him Canada's most famous unemployed hustler.

You wouldn't think a journalism professor would need to hook, but it didn't start out that way. It was way back in 1987 when The Body Politic ("Canada's magazine of gay liberation") had just ceased publishing and Gerald was out of a job. He was a good writer, but with no mainstream credentials or experience it would take time to build a career in the real world. Just like the other boys I talked to, he got into the business because he needed money.

He didn't think anyone would pay for sex with a man his age, but a hustler friend of his convinced him that not everyone wanted twinkies and that there was such a thing as "niche marketing." It turns out the friend was right because Gerald has been a successful whore for almost 14 years. Although even he admits "there's a limit to this niche marketing thing, and at 56 it's got to end at some point." There can be little doubt of that.

I've been at Gerald's when he's "working," working with his journalist cap on, and working with his whore hat on. He'll be in the middle of an interview with some senator for one of our national newspapers when the call waiting beep comes through. He puts the senator on hold and starts his hustler sales pitch to some guy responding to his ad. "I'm average looking. Average body. Average dick. Fifty bucks for anything you want," he tells the guy. He books an appointment and goes back to the senator. It all seems very weird to watch.

Gerald is just as high-minded about his whoring as he is with his prose. "The proper business of a prostitute is to become a saint," he says. What he means by that is that a good hooker learns to subjugate his own needs to serve the client. People come to him, he says, out of need. A good whore satisfies those needs selflessly. I guess it's his degree in philosophy that makes him different from other hustlers.

I said that Gerald is reliable. I should explain. Gerald prides himself on his uncanny ability to get a boner for absolutely every client, no matter how horrible they are. It's just a "courtesy," he says. The last thing he wants to do as a saint is hurt someone's feelings by making them feel unattractive, or leave them unsatisfied because he couldn't perform.

You're probably wondering who would use a 56-year-old hooker. I can tell you. Lots of people. Like the 76-year-old grandfather who has finally discovered he likes to get fucked and knows Gerald can do the job. The poor old guy has a tough time getting away from the wife, so Gerald has to phone his house and say he's a doctor with the Workers' Compensation Board and he needs to come in for a physical. That worked for years, but the wife finally got suspicious that the husband seem to be having so many physicals and now the poor guy is out of luck.

Then there's the rather hot 30-year-old construction worker who has a thing for older men. I've seen him once and he's quite cute and he really likes Gerald. He's come by several times for servicing. But mostly his clients are an endless stream of married men who want to "experiment" with anther guy. I've seen a few of them too, and some of them are not bad looking either. They could easily do quite well in a bathhouse, but they wouldn't dare. They prefer the discreet professionalism of Saint Gerald.

Things have improved for Gerald since the scandal broke a few years ago.

He's back to writing for all the big places again and his whoring business is doing just fine. He'll never teach at the university again, but at least the settlement allowed him to pay off his condo. That condo makes for probably the fanciest trick pad in town and definitely adds a touch of class to the whole experience for first-timers.

The common theme for all three of my hustlers is the fact that they're doing it for the money, and because they basically have to. That makes me wonder if just using their services is inherently exploitative. But none of them seems to think so.

"I'm a servant not a slave," says Brad to the question. Adding "It's a service just like any other service. I'm no different than a dentist." Gerald feels the same way. "How is this any different than selling my editorial skills?" he asks rhetorically.

Still, I think there's something slightly unfair about it all. But then I think on it awhile and come to the conclusion that it's just as unfair to take advantage of immigrants and put them to work as janitors cleaning toilets for minimum wage. It isn't the johns that have created the situation-- it's how the world works that's the problem. Everybody has to hustle in one way or another to survive or they're out on the street. Pick your poison.

It also becomes clear to me that there are good, honest used car sales men just trying to make a living, as well as con artists who'll take advantage of you in minute. That's the nature of the beast. That's life.

Author Profile:  Joseph Couture

Joseph Couture is a journalist based on London, Ontario.