With two recent posts featuring prostitution, an earlier time comes to mind. As mentioned before, my caretakers upon entry to gay life were the trannies, drag queens, and club kids. Although there was nothing from Patricia Field in my wardrobe (except those red satin pants), there was no rope or drink ticket that couldn't be navigated.
Some of these friendships extended outside of the clubs, in particular Tia. Tia was a guardian to me in the clubs. Tia would approve and, more frequently, disapprove of which boys were worth my time. She would ensure a fresh cocktail in my hand at all times (which was no easy feat). She would steer me clear of "devils".
We spent many a day just chatting away or watching Beavis and Butthead marathons at her York Avenue apartment. Occasionally though our time together would be interupted when Tia would have visitors. There were two simple rules when a visitor came to visit: don't speak and don't look at the visitor. Yes, as many transsexuals must be in order to afford their surgeries and hormones, Tia was a prostitute.
The routine was simple. Routine clients would call up and ring the door. New clients that had seen her ad in the Observer or Village Voice would have to go to a certain phone booth which we could see from the corner window of the apartment. Upon the approval of Tia (and me if she was on the fence) the client to could ring the door. Once the downstairs buzzer had rung, my position was to sit facing the television, thus with the back of my head to the door. (At times I would watch ESPN as what was on could not be "too gay".) Five minutes to an hour later, the client would typically make a quick stop to the bathroom and then head for the door, never having seen my face.
Recently a more economically-minded friend heard of this former pastime and quickly asked, "So what was your take?" My cocked head conveyed my lack of understanding, so he rephrased the question. "For each client that came in while you were there, were you given a percentage?" Assuming that my friend was assuming that my services were also employed, my hasty excusing of myself looked both nervous and confused.
"Essentially", he explained, "you were there as house security. Seeing you on that couch told her clients that she wasn't alone there and not to mess with Tia. You were her pimp."
It never seemed as such, but this friend was right. The client coming through the door saw nothing but a guy watching a football game. This mere presence or at least perception was enough to quell any impulse to act up. There were never any problems and services were paid with no questions. I was a pimp. An unpaid pimp.
