The Cafe Aphrodite is not one of the city’s best known attractions, even among the red light crowd. For a start, we’re well off the beaten track, a couple of bus rides from where the rest of the action is, and even the taxis don’t like heading this far out. Our neighbors are no more glamorous than the newsstands, groceries, and broken down repair stores that the fringe of every city is overrun with. Our clientele are more likely to be bored laborers, passing shoppers and curious college kids than high rolling city slickers and businessmen.
This probably explains how the place has been here so long. Across the rest of the city, across the rest of the country, the police have been closing the clip joints and strip bars faster than the girls can open their legs. But Mike’s been running this place for nine years and never been busted once.
Which is great, because this is the best job I’ve ever had.
I was expecting at least the rudiments of an interview, the day I finally plucked up the nerve to answer the vaguely worded advertisement at the back of the local free paper; decode the shadowed suggestions and hints that the dark voice who answered the phone let slip; and then show up at the cafe one wet afternoon. Yes, I was expecting an interview. Instead, I got a lecture. A very, very short lecture, because he’s not a man to use three words when a simple grunt will suffice. But, a lecture nonetheless.
“Three rules. No talking, no time wasting, and no mess on the floor. Spit, swallow, smear it on your skin, I don’t care what you do. But I don’t want to see any cum on the carpets, none on the walls, and none on your clothes. Any questions?”
I shook my head. He’d already shown me to my “office,” as he called it, a three foot square cubicle with pale lilac walls and, at varying heights on three of them, a series of holes. Through which the johns would poke their peckers, in expectation of the time of their lives. There was a pair of identical cubicles on either side, each one servicing three more walls worth of guests apiece. On a busy night, I imagined this as one of the happiest houses in town!
“First few times, you’ll probably only be able to handle one at a time,” Deidre (a pseudonym), a forty-something bleached blonde, told me as I sat sipping coffee before my first shift began. “Give it a couple of days, though, and you’ll have three on the go at a time, one on each wall, and all three of them will believe that they’re the only man in the world. Assuming,” she added, “you’re any good.”
She paused. “So are you?”
“What?”
“Any good?”
I think I must have flushed a little, because her eyes softened and she smiled a little. “I think so…” I began, and she interrupted with a laugh. “You’ve never had any complaints yet, right?”
“Right,” I smiled back.
“You won’t get any here either. Or, at least, not many. There’s always the odd guy who will kick up a fuss, saying he didn’t cum hard enough, or you brought him off too quickly. But Mike deals with them, and they don’t complain for long. Most of our customers, they’re so happy to get a pair of lips around their cock, they wouldn’t know a ‘good’ blow if you spent all night giving tongue baths.
“No, what I mean by good is—you’ve got to be quick. And you’ve got to be able to move around quickly. One night I had five cocks at once, all sticking through those holes like it was the most urgent thing in the world, and it was my job to agree with them.”
“Five?” But there are only three walls, I was going to say, but Deirdre beat me to it. “They double up. Two guys staggering home from the bar, drunk and horny … they just bundle into a cubicle together and don’t think anything of it.”
I tried to picture the scene from my angle, one dick at mouth height, the other in my hair … my god, you could get whiplash trying to please them both. But Deirdre just laughed, a warm sort-of-cackle, and started laying out a side of the job I had never even thought of.
Mike did not offer any health benefits. But it had some, regardless. “It’ll save you a fortune in skin care products. If you grind your teeth or have TMJ, sucking cock is the greatest exercise in the world. I know, because it worked for me. And if you ever want to give up smoking …” she nodded at the Newport I’d lit up … “Well … it’ll help you out there as well. Every time you feel like a cigarette, just suck some cock instead.”
I stubbed out my cigarette.
“You’re up.” The door to the cubicle in front of me opened, and an absolutely stunning woman stepped out, looking like she’d just spent the day relaxing at the spa. In fact, she’d just spent three hours on her knees, but her skin glowed, her hair shone, her eyes danced and her smile flashed.
Deirdre introduced me, and the girl, Cass, inclined her head, and then stood aside as I rose and walked into the cubicle. I looked around. Just as Mike said, the room was spotless; not even a balled-up tissue or two in the wastepaper basket, and the little hand basin was sparkling too. I adjusted a few of the cushions that were scattered on the floor, then took a deep breath and pressed the little buzzer that let the front desk know I was ready to begin.
Okay. You’re probably wondering what sort of girl would willingly sign up to spend six hours day (in two shifts of three), five days a week, on her knees in a box sucking stranger’s cocks? Well, I’ll tell you.
I’m twenty-eight, and I’m putting myself through college. So I need the money, and this pays well. Better than waitressing, better than dancing, better than stripping and, from what I’ve heard, better than whoring. I enjoy sex, of course I do. But I also see sex for what it is, as opposed to what we all dream it is. A physical transaction between two people, one who wants to get his rocks off, and one who is willing to help him.
I love giving blowjobs, that‘s true. But sucking off strangers is very, very different to sucking off my boyfriend, or someone I’m involved with. Or even know. It’s not a love thing, it’s not a lust thing, and it’s not even a desire thing. It’s just … a thing. With someone you have feelings for, it can be the most intimate act imaginable. With someone you don’t know from Adam, it’s no different to giving them a massage. In fact, it is a massage, in a way. A part of your body is in contact with a part of theirs and if you can overlook the fact that it’s your mouth and their penis, as opposed your hands and their shoulders (and you can overlook it, a lot faster than you’d expect), it really isn’t that big a deal any longer. And if that makes you look at me with different eyes or not want to hear any more of my story, then that’s up to you.
I suck cock for a living and I love my job. But that doesn’t mean I have to love every cock that I suck. I don’t love every drop of semen that they pump onto my hand, face, or onto my tits or anywhere else. I just need to pretend that I do.
Part 2 of Chrissie’s glory hole experience continues here
This article has been republished with permission from Chrissie Bentley
Feature image courtesy of Shutterstock
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