Once upon a time I was young; I was thin; I had a full head of hair; I was reasonably good looking; I spoke with an English accent; I was in New York City; I was at university; I was broke.
The year was 1954; I was just 21 year old; I hung around bars off Broadway in the theatre district on Wednesday afternoons before the theatre matinees and, if I did not strike lucky before the shows I usually struck lucky after the shows.
I never actually took money €“ I allowed ladies to buy me dinner; buy me clothes and shoes; take me to movies and take me on brief vacations (Puerto Rico and the Caribbean Islands were popular choices).
As I developed a tan and my English accent became more pronounced and I was more smartly dressed and my hair grew longer (and more styled) and, as I became more sexually experienced, I started to be €œpassed around€ by way of recommendations.
There were no mobile phones; no e-mail; and Benjamin Braddock and Mrs Robinson were to arrive 13 years in the future. But the Ladies €œbush telegraph€ (Brazilians were not common then) kept my flagpole busy.
I had 18 months as a gigolo and had virtually forgotten about it until last year someone sent me a photo of me with two sisters-in-law taken in 1955.
I enjoyed the experience; I certainly never felt guilty; and, in case there are a number of psychiatrists reading this, I can assure you that it was not that period of my life that gave me a predilection for Ladyboys in my latter years.
The year was 1954; I was just 21 year old; I hung around bars off Broadway in the theatre district on Wednesday afternoons before the theatre matinees and, if I did not strike lucky before the shows I usually struck lucky after the shows.
I never actually took money €“ I allowed ladies to buy me dinner; buy me clothes and shoes; take me to movies and take me on brief vacations (Puerto Rico and the Caribbean Islands were popular choices).
As I developed a tan and my English accent became more pronounced and I was more smartly dressed and my hair grew longer (and more styled) and, as I became more sexually experienced, I started to be €œpassed around€ by way of recommendations.
There were no mobile phones; no e-mail; and Benjamin Braddock and Mrs Robinson were to arrive 13 years in the future. But the Ladies €œbush telegraph€ (Brazilians were not common then) kept my flagpole busy.
I had 18 months as a gigolo and had virtually forgotten about it until last year someone sent me a photo of me with two sisters-in-law taken in 1955.
I enjoyed the experience; I certainly never felt guilty; and, in case there are a number of psychiatrists reading this, I can assure you that it was not that period of my life that gave me a predilection for Ladyboys in my latter years.
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