Hot Nights in the South of France

by Henri Couesnon

  People who were in the know, aware of how the international escort world worked, assumed that Laurent was raking in money, hand over fist. He was, but still—!

  He had his expenses—and, unfortunately, because he didn’t declare most of his income when he did his tax returns, he couldn’t list them as business expenses!

  First and foremost, there was his website, which he’d paid to have custom-made to look especially good, and which he had to pay a fee each month to maintain. But the expenditure was well worth it. The website contained alluring photos of Laurent, both clothed and nude, the nude shots displaying his cheeky ass and his awesome-looking cock in all its stiff glory. There was a blog, complete with more, candid photos, in which Laurent kept his many admirers informed about his travels and his other activities, although he was careful about not revealing the names or any other details about those of his johns who hosted him on his travels. There was a calendar, showing which dates each month Laurent was available. Prospective clients could click on a date to reserve his services. Of course, they were expected to pay ahead of time, via credit card. And there were no refunds, in case they ended up having to cancel!

  Of course, most men wanted to contact and interact with Laurent, not just book him. They’d talk to him in the phone, or chat with him or Skype him on the internet, ahead of meeting up with him. Schmoozing the johns, stringing them along, was a vital part of the job, and Laurent was good at it.

  Laurent had more prospective clients than he could handle. So he’d enlisted the services of no fewer than four other young studs who lived in the south of France, as his backups. These guys had their photos and descriptive information listed on Laurent’s s website, too. They handled his overflow—the clients whom Laurent couldn’t take care of, himself. Laurent’s fellow hustlers were also available to join him whenever a john wanted a threesome, or a group sex scene.

  Laurent collected the money from the johns, upfront, and he gave his subordinates their cuts, afterward. Cash tips provided by the johns were of course the stud-for-hires to keep.

  Laurent supposed this made him a pimp—a whoremaster. The labels didn’t bother him. Business was good. The guys who worked for him had no complaints. Without the expense of having their own websites, and with the convenience of having their appointments booked for them, they were doing a steady business. Laurent was already well on his way to running the most prestigious, profitable escort service in the south of France.

  Laurent turned a healthy profit, each month, despite his routine expenses.

  Hs apartment in Nice was small, but it was located in a respectable neighborhood of the city, where clients wouldn’t hesitate to go for in-calls. As a result, the rent wasn’t exactly cheap. Laurent’s tastes were simple, but he decorated the place comfortably and elegantly, especially the bedroom, where he conducted business. He hired a cleaning woman who came in twice a week and who kept the apartment immaculately clean. As a male prostitute, Laurent found himself laundering bedsheets and towels himself, several times a week. It seemed that he no sooner changed the bed linens before they ended up saturated with sweat and cum, again!

  He not only belonged to a gym in Nice, where he worked out religiously—he availed himself of the services of one of the gym’s personal trainers, who helped to keep him focused and motivated. Laurent’s physique was his fortune, after all. He couldn’t afford to slack off. His big hard shoulders and pecs, his bulging biceps, his chiseled abs, his firm glutes, his sturdily muscled thighs and calves—they were assets, just as much as his handsome face and big uncut cock, which he owed to genetics, not to weight training.

  He needed nice clothes and accessories, including jewelry, to make the right impression when clients took him out in public on dates, or wanted him to travel to or with them. In his limited leisure time, no doubt by way of compensation, Laurent tended to dress casually to the point of slovenliness, in favorite worn-out old clothes.

  He had to be scrupulously careful about his health, and he scheduled regular checkups with his doctor.

  There was also the possibility, however remote, that he might someday need the services of a shrewd lawyer.

  The current laws in France regarding prostitution were a bit illogical, even contradictory. It was a legal for a man or woman to be a prostitute and sell sex. What was illegal was soliciting in public, or operating a brothel. Also illegal was procuring—i.e., arranging for one person to sell sex to another. Actually paying for sex was also a criminal offense, technically, punishable by a fine.

  This meant that Laurent was perfectly free to sell himself, but he could be prosecuted for setting up dates for the guys who worked for him. And a man such as Zizi could, theoretically, be made to pay a fine for hiring Laurent’s sexual services. None of it made much sense, and an escort like Laurent, who operated discreetly, had little to worry about in reality. He was careful to include on his website, for example, a disclaimer to the effect that all he and his coworkers were offering was “companionship,” not sex. He and his customers knew that this was far from being the case, but the language was there, as a safeguard.

  It was tough enough being a whore. You had to be an amateur lawyer, as well!

  Laurent’s one luxury was his motor vehicle. He owned a sports car, an old Peugeot convertible coupe, which was his pride and joy. The body could use some work, indeed restoration, and Laurent was saving his money in order to take care of that soon. But, mechanically, the car was sound, indeed impeccable, thanks to regular tune-ups and maintenance which a skilled mechanic in Nice performed for Laurent.

  All this cost money, though, biting into Laurent’s profits. Still, he made money. Not only did his bank accounts continue to grow—he was able to invest some of his money.

  The real downside of being a full-time male prostitute was the fact that he had virtually no social life, except for that provided by those johns who wanted to take him out on dates in public, showing Laurent off, preferably to their friends, to incite their envy. Laurent often went for months at a time, having sex virtually every night—and, often, during the daytime hours, as well!—but without ever hooking up with another guy by his own choice, for free, just for recreational sex. It was all business. He was on call. He reported to his johns, and, scrupulously, he delivered the services they demanded. He was a robot—a sex machine. Switched on and off, like any other appliance.

  Things had gotten to the point where, on his website’s appointment calendar, Laurent routinely went in and blocked off a couple of days each month, on which he wouldn’t be available. This would be his down time, during which he could just relax and be himself. Even so, he’d sometimes make an exception, when one of his regulars contacted him and wanted to see him during his scheduled time off. Money was money, after all, and a wise whore never turned it down.

  Laurent often thought about the future.

  No matter how attractive, well-built, well-hung, and sexually versatile a male whore was, time and the ageing process were his enemies, not his friends. There’d always be some ambitious, amoral young stud who was not only younger but fresher, with the advantage of being a new face and body and cock, who’d come along, demanding his share of the action. Laurent in fact knew some well-preserved, well-established fellow escorts who were still active and in demand, in their forties and even in their fifties. Somehow, they’d made a lifelong career of hustling. They’d managed gracefully to manage the transition from sweet, innocent young twink to hot, butch mature muscle stud, and then to hot daddy or hot furry bear status. All the while, carrying a loyal paying clientele along with them. Good for them! But Laurent couldn’t see himself turning tricks when he was in his late forties, no matter how well he managed to hold up by then.

  His plan was to live as frugally as possible, go on saving and investing his money, and accumulate enough of a pile which would enable him to retire gracefully, while he was still reasonably hot.

  And then, he told himself, rather cynically, I’ll probably start playin
g the other side of this game. Making a fool of myself over some young hustler. Falling in love with him. Keeping him. Letting him take advantage of me. Aw, shit! But what the hell? I suppose there are worse fates. If I’m going to turn into a dirty old man, at least, dear God, let me be the kind of dirty old man who can still get it up, keep it up, and put it to good use!

  But, to him, when he was in his less pessimistic moods, old age and retirement still seemed to be a long way off. Meanwhile, he was enjoying himself, with a feckless young lustiness. He was young. He was sexy. He was desired. He lived in the beautiful south of France. Life was good.

  Chapter Three: Shower of Pleasure

  Laurent disliked Monte Carlo. It was undeniably beautiful, and immaculately clean. Underneath the glamor, though, there was a certain unreality. The principality seemed like an artificial environment, almost like a theme park. You couldn’t walk anywhere outdoors without being tracked by security cameras, which admittedly made crime virtually nonexistent, but which added to the impression of being one of many actors on a stage set.

  Still, wealthy tourists swarmed to the place, and Laurent often did business there.

  On this occasion, he’d driven the twenty-three kilometers from Nice to Monte Carlo, a trip which took a little over half an hour, to hook up with a john who was there in Monaco on business, but who planned to work some pleasure into his schedule, too. The client’s name was Gaston. He was a Parisian, who’d booked Laurent well in advance of his trip south. In anticipation of their hookup, he and Laurent had communicated several times, talking casually, and as a result Laurent felt quite comfortable with the other man. It wasn’t like being hired via his website by some guy with no personal contact, and walking into the rendezvous with him “cold,” not knowing what to expect. Laurent had done that, lots of time, and he knew how to handle himself in such situations. Still, he preferred to know ahead of time whom he’d be dealing with.

  Gaston, as johns went, was unusually open and candid. He had even sent Laurent his photo. Assuming it was a current photo, Gaston was in his mid-thirties, and a very attractive man, with what Laurent recognized as an obviously weight-trained physique. Laurent knew the type. A successful young business executive, probably with a high-pressure job, who couldn’t waste his free time in trying to find a compatible boyfriend. Instead, relying upon hustlers kept the man satisfied. Impersonal hookups—hot sex, but fleeting encounters. Well, after all, that was Laurent’s stock in trade. He anticipated that’d he enjoy having sex with this guy.

  Gaston had been frank about what he wanted.

  “After a day of business meetings—and they always drag on into the early evening—all I want to do is go back to my hotel room, unwind over a couple of bottles of wine, and fuck my brains out with a good-looking guy,” he’d admitted to Laurent, during one of their conversations.

  “That sounds good to me,” Laurent agreed.

  “Pure sex.”

  “Or impure sex?” Laurent suggested.

  “Better yet.”

  Gaston had pre-paid for four hours of Laurent’s company, and he made it clear that this wasn’t going to be a quasi-romantic date. They wouldn’t leave Gaston’s hotel room. There, behind closed doors, the Parisian businessman hoped to enjoy nonstop sex. With a stud on hand to provide him with an unflagging erection to play with!

  “Think you’re up to it?” he asked.

  “I can assure you I am,” Laurent said. “Not boasting—just stating a fact.”

  Gaston chuckled. “I’m going to hold you to that. You’ve got a sense of humor. I like that. I like you, Laurent. Can’t wait to meet you in person.”

  “Same here.”

  On the day of the appointment, the two men exchanged text messages. Gaston confirmed that he’d arrived in Monte Carlo, as scheduled, and Laurent replied, saying that he was on his way.

  Laurent took care to arrive in the principality early, which allowed him to cope with one of Monte Carlo’s annoyances—the difficulty of finding a parking spot which wasn’t exorbitantly expensive.

  Laurent got lucky. He found a parking lot which not only had vacant spaces, but which didn’t require a driver to sell his soul in exchange for leaving his vehicle there for a few hours.

  The sun was setting. With an hour to kill before his rendezvous, Laurent had a coffee in a café near Gaston’s hotel. Sipping the brew, he people-watched.

  Gaston was staying in one of the city’s finest hotels, located on the Avenue Princesse Grace. Presumably, on this business trip, his company was paying his expenses. If so, they weren’t stinting.

  After finishing his coffee, Laurent took a leisurely stroll to the hotel, timing his arrival so that he was ten minutes early. Customers, understandably enough, disliked it when a high-priced whore was late for an assignation. Laurent was scrupulous about such things. On the very rare occasions when, through no fault of his own, he was running late, he always phoned the client to advise him of the fact, and when he did report for duty, he stayed late with the man, at no extra charge, to make up for the delay.

  Gaston had given Laurent his room number, and he’d told him to come directly up to the room. Casually but expensively dressed, immaculately groomed, Laurent could have passed for one of the hotel’s guests, or a guest’s friend. None of the hotel’s employees, including the security guards, gave him more than a passing glance. As a handsome, debonair young man, Laurent fit right in. Entering the lobby, riding up in the elevator, and finding the room down a long, quiet hallway, consumed five minutes. And so, five minutes before he was expected, Laurent tapped lightly on the door.

  Gaston opened it at once. He was wearing only a bathrobe, a particularly luxurious affair, silk with a bold abstract geometric pattern in gold, red, green, and black, against an orange background. He’d evidently just showered. His hair, still damp, was tousled, falling uncombed around his head and down over his forehead, where it got into his eyes—giving his still-youthful features a boyish look. He’d been careless about tying the sash of the robe, which gaped open in front above and below the sash, exposing part of his chest and stomach, the insides of his thighs, and also providing an indiscreet glimpse of his genitalia.

  “My God,” Gaston exclaimed, at the sight of Laurent, standing there in the hallway. “You’re even more beautiful than in the photos on your website.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come in, come in! Oh, I’m so glad to see you—to have you here. What a day I’ve had! A long one—I thought it’d never end. Now, finally, I can relax. I just got out of the shower. I’m having my wine. I always treat myself to some, after work. You’ll join me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  During these brief exchanges, Laurent had entered the room, and taken a quick, casual look around it. It was capacious, with the bed placed well away from the door, but near the windows. The drapes were drawn across these windows, blocking out what was no doubt a good view. Plush wall-to-wall carpeting was underfoot. The bed was turned down. It was flanked by a pair of nightstands, each of which had a small shaded table lamp set on it. Lit, the lamps supplied the only illumination in the room—a soft, soothing, seductive glow thrown over the bed, leaving the rest of the space in shadows.

  On one of the nightstands there was prominently displayed a large, brand-new tube of sex lubricant. Gaston may not have ever been a Boy Scout, but like a lot of gay men, he obviously believed in being prepared.

  Between the door and the bed there were a small table and two armchairs. The table held two bottles of wine, one of them open and half full, the other one still corked, along with a corkscrew, and two deep-bowled stemmed wineglasses, one empty, the other containing a residue of purplish-red liquid, which gleamed in the dim light.

  Gaston, Laurent could tell, was a bit wired—worked up, in need of unwinding. And he was obviously in a mood to talk. He kept up a stream of chatter as he poured wine into the other glass, and then handed it to his visitor—whom, with a gesture, he invited to si
t in one of the armchairs.

  “This is a really good, robust, full-bodied burgundy. I always like a good burgundy. I didn’t care for the wine we had with dinner. It was a bit dull. That was another business meeting, over dinner, of course. The restaurant was nice. Good food, but terribly overpriced, like everything here in Monte Carlo. But what the hell? I wasn’t paying. Which reminds me. Have you eaten? Are you hungry? I can have room service send up something, anything you want.”

  “No, thanks. Don’t bother. I had a late lunch. And,” Laurent added, suggestively, “I find that I work better on an empty stomach. I’ll just sit here for a moment and enjoy this excellent wine, if that’s all right. If you’re not in a hurry to get started.”

  Gaston laughed. “The more I look at you, the more I can’t wait to get started! And to keep going, for that matter! But, no—there’s no rush. Relax. Drink up. Enjoy it.”

  Seated opposite Laurent at the little table, with his legs spread and his bare feet pressed into the soft carpeting—a pose which widened the gap in the front of his bathrobe and exposed his crotch even more blatantly—Gaston cheerfully guzzled his wine, while Laurent sipped his more cautiously.

  Laurent was used to having johns wanting him to drink or do drugs with them. He didn’t like to get wasted when he was turning a trick, if only because it might impede his performance. But there were ways to seem to play along, to pace himself and remain comparatively sober, no matter how much, or how recklessly, his client indulged.

  They made small talk. During the course of the conversation, Gaston matter-of-factly nudged his chair closer to Laurent’s, so that he could lean forward and rest his hand familiarly upon the male prostitute’s knee. Smiling, Laurent did nothing to discourage him.

  “Feeling better? Less tense?” Laurent inquired.

  “Fuck, yes! Thanks to you. You’re just what I need, after the day I’ve had. I feel nice and relaxed, now. Mellowed out. Although,” Gaston added, coquettishly, “maybe I’m still kind of tense in one part of my body.” He was referring, of course, to his groin area. Through the gap in Gaston’s gaudy silk bathrobe, Laurent could see the guy’s penis, large and uncircumcised, rising up in semi-erection, poking his way free from the token confinement of the flimsy fabric. The glans was emerging from its sheath of foreskin. Below the root of the burgeoning hard-on, Gaston’s balls were swelling, drawing up snugly against his perineum muscle.