Confessions of a call bear I'm just an average, slightly paunchy 40-something guy. And you might be surprised at how I make a living By Rusty McMann Rusty McMann is the stage name of a real male escort living in Las Vegas.
Dig if you will the picture: A middle-aged man stands in an elevator on the 26th floor of the Palazzo, one of the most luxurious (well, expensive) casino/resorts on the Las Vegas strip. At 6-foot-3 and 245 pounds, he's a pretty big guy, though he "carries it well." His red hair is cut in a flattop, and he has a closely cropped beard, but he doesn't look particularly imposing. He's dressed in a faded sea foam green Banana Republic polo shirt, khaki shorts from Target, and Birkenstock sandals. Over one shoulder is a small messenger bag. He stands in the corner and tries to look like everyone else; he may or may not be checking messages on his PDA, but he's pushing buttons on it and appears busy.
The doors open and three women step on: a blonde, a brunette and one whose hair has been bleached and blown dry so many times it's not a discernible color. All of the women could stand to have a good 3 inches cut off their hair. They wear slight variations on the Little Black Slut Dress. They wear too much makeup, a pair of shoes that doesn't quite match the dress, towering heels.
The man in the corner rolls his eyes and thinks to himself, "And I'm the hooker."
That's right: I'm 47 years old, I'm a good 30 pounds overweight, and I make my living by taking care of men who come to Las Vegas hoping for some skin time with other men -- for a fee. And in case you're ready to dismiss me as someone clinging onto the last shreds of his faded beauty, you should know that I was well into my 40s before I started hooking.
If you find it hard to believe that anyone would pay the likes of me for sex, you're not alone. I get lots of hate e-mail telling me how pathetic it is for a "fat old queen" like me to be charging for his company. About half of it comes from skinny smooth-skinned rent boys who were never going to be my competition, and the rest is from 40-something men with bodies similar to mine, probably mad because they don't have the balls to hang out a shingle for themselves. And almost all of them include a variation of same question: "There are actually guys who pay you?!"