Stab Magazine | What’s A Working Stiff To Do?

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What’s A Working Stiff To Do?

On gay surfers, surfer boy erotica, male prostitution, and outside the box economic opportunity.

style // Nov 22, 2017
Words by Stab
Reading Time: 6 minutes

It started off innocently enough.  

I thought it would be interesting to talk to some gay surfers, figure out why our sport is so overwhelmingly hetero. Ask if homophobia is still a real problem. Ask if they feel free to be themselves around their fellow surfers. A fair amount on the female side are living out and proud these days, but the dudes still seem to be hiding in the shadows. It’s hardly a new story, but one I feel still leaves much to be told.

It seems so damn unfair. I live out my own deviant proclivities in public, why shouldn’t others enjoy that same privilege?  

I was immediately distracted by the quantity of erotica available. It isn’t particularly surprising, any sport that features toned and tan young men frolicking outdoors in various states of undress is going to breed a substantial amount of spin-off jerk-off material.  But it’s very interesting to me that a sport which more or less ignores gay love is so heavily enamored by it.

My favorite genre of wank material, by far, are the spank books. The most popular of which seems to be Surfer Boys: Gay Erotic Stories, a collection of short stories edited by Neil Plakcy.

Hang ten!” takes on new meaning in this collection of erotic stories that follows the sexual escapades of those fabulous beach boys. Their taut, tanned bodies glistening with water and their hair damp from a dip in the ocean, these dudes are like sex on surfboards — fast, sleek, and oh so hot! The 19 stories — including “Blue Star Boy,” “Samurai of the Surf,” and “Surf Stud Initiation” — follow the adventures of these sensuous surfers from Cape Cod to Japan to Hawaii as they ride the waves of pleasure to anything from tender romance to raw, hardcore sex. Featuring such noted erotic authors as Shane Allison, Rob Rosen, Jay Starre, and Aaron Micheals, these stories show that the beach has a lot more to offer than just a tan.

I am very intrigued and seriously considering signing up for the free audio book trial. This is definitely the type of narrative best delivered in the dulcet tones of a professional voice actor.

And it’s a market at which I, as a writer, may need to take a closer look.  

Winter on the North Shore: sexually frustrated young men living in closer quarters, spending their days awash in adrenaline, their nights beneath a warm tropical moon…

The stories damn near write themselves.  

If there’s real money in this scene I’ll have to try my hand at penning a few tales regarding a young trio on the Seven Mile Miracle: They’ve arrived to test themselves on the proving grounds, retiring each evening to a shared room where they take out their pent up aggression on each other after yet another failed pick-up mission at the Foodland deli counter. They’re not really gay, just experimenting. Finding joy in each other’s wide shoulders and muscular backs. Learning to love, tasting true passion—a tale as old as the hills.

There’s gotta be a decent amount of experimentation going on off Ke Nui Rd. The male-to-female ratio is inherently terrible, and can you blame a young man for giving it a shot when other options don’t pan out.

I mean, oysters seem disgusting and I long refused to eat them.  But one night my father-in-law pressured me into sucking one down.

I don’t regret it one bit.

Now I can’t get enough of the things.  I’m only bummed that I missed out for so long.

What does this have to do with male prostitution?

It’s not much of a challenge to find a whore of the female variety on Oahu. There are the massage parlors in Town. Craigslist ads galore. Ala Wai after dark. Gray-area buy-me-drinkee bars. Sunlight streetwalkers in Wahiawa peddling ass to feed their addictions. Working girls flying in from the mainland to stock the shelves for drunken conventioneers. It’s a veritable cornucopia of storefront pussy, catering to everyone regardless of budget and across all levels of sleaze.

But I’ve never noticed any men. Which seems like just a terrific winter job for a surfer. Is it a case of expectation bias? Is the gender dynamic so skewed as to eliminate the necessity for men to peddle their bodies? Am I blind? Maybe they’ve been right in front of me all along?

For answers I turned to the only gay man I know well enough to ask stupid questions without feeling self-conscious.

“I was wondering, where are all the gay prostitutes on Oahu?”

“Just go to Hula’s.  Plenty of guys love bears. You’ll do fine. You don’t need to pay for it.”

“That’s not what I meant.  Just, like, generally.  If I wanted to buy some ass, where would I look?”

“You mean, like, trannys?”

“No. They’re women. I mean, like, just full-on dudes to fuck. And I thought I wasn’t supposed to say, ‘tranny’.”

“You aren’t. And, uh, I don’t know. That’s not really my scene.”

“Yeah, it’s not mine either. But I still totally know a bunch of places I couldget a whore.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Come on. You understand what I’m saying.”

“I don’t think I do. What kind of guy are you looking for?”

“It doesn’t matter…”

“Oh, it matters.”

“No, it doesn’t. Listen, I’m just trying to get pointed in the right direction. It’s research.”

“Okay, I get it.  Research.  Does your wife know about your research?”

“She’s the one who said I should ask you.”

“Of course she did. You two are such freaks.”

“Jesus, dude. If I wanted to start fucking dudes I’d just come out and ask for a hookup.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”

“God damn it. That’s not what I’m saying. I want to write something about male prostitution in Hawaii…”

“And you’re going to be doing plenty of research, huh? I totally get it.”

“Fuck… Okay, look… fine. Hypothetically, if I wanted to try my hand at fucking dudes…”

“Hypothetically…”

“… where could I pick up a male prostitute?”

“I really don’t know, Rory. It’s, uh, maybe some bartenders do that? Or check Craigslist and Grindr. I’m not sure, I’ve never done it. But, again, you don’t need to pay for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for your help.”  

I suspect he was playing coy, but it doesn’t matter. One thing is crystal clear: from the perspective of the curious outsider, the market is grossly under-served.  

I’m positive there must be a surfer/high-end male escort situation lurking out there somewhere. Too many rich tourists fly out to play, a decent amount are surely be looking to pay for toned, tanned ass.

Not unlike Hollywood with its delusional would-be starlets, Oahu is an expensive destination full of broke, fit, young men. Wanna-be ‘QS warriors, hometown heroes looking to make a name in heavy surf.  Young idealists seeking a lifestyle that isn’t actually attainable. Thousands step off a plane each month looking to chase their dreams. And it’s those same dreams that, once broken, perfectly pave the road towards prostitution. It’s an easy pitch:

Wouldn’t you like to prolong your trip? Aren’t you sick of peanut butter and white bread sandwiches? Doesn’t it suck living in a roach infested shit hole? Don’t you want something better? Wouldn’t it be amazing if there were a part-time job that would put enough money in your pocket to live a life of luxury?  

Let me tell you, this island is awash in hot and ready divorcees. These ladies come out on their ex-husbands’ dime, just begging to get their grooves back. You can surf all day and earn bank playing boy toy for hot and horny cougars. Eating fancy dinners, drinking fine wine. Retiring to beachfront rentals to make sweet love by candlelight. Shit, you should be paying me, really.

Which could be true. I don’t know. If a tropical island filled up with attractive athletic women each Winter it’d be standing room only packed with creeps. They’d be hiding in the bushes, loitering outside restrooms, never giving the ladies a moment of peace. It shouldn’t be too difficult to sell a naive young idiot on the lie that there’s a horde of women just begging to pay him for a little romantic loving.

And I’m sure those ladies exist. Women have appetites too, and I don’t believe there aren’t those who’d love nothing more than to dive head first into the pile of dicks on display.  But, if we’re being honest, from a female perspective a mass of aggressively horny men is likely to feel more intimidating than enjoyable.

Said proverbial pile will undoubtedly attract a large group of interested parties, but it won’t be comprised of your mom’s hot friends.

But the pitch doesn’t need to be true, only plausible. A pimp could earn a buck, easy, by thinking a bit outside the box. Lure in young men with an attractive yarn, whet their appetites, promise the moon. The supply of willing and affluent older women isn’t endless, if it even exists. But it doesn’t need to be.

Once the boys are hooked, willing to play, it’s just a matter of dropping the pretty lies and pushing an ugly truth:

“No one likes their job. Besides, it ain’t gay if your dick ain’t hard. Now get to work, bitch.”

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