Diary of a Las Vegas Call Bear: Not Every John Is a Freakshow

SOUNDBITES — “There was this one time in Phoenix when I was called to the far edges of the suburbs very late at night. When I pulled in the driveway the entire house was dark, including the doorbell. After a few knocks, someone looking like Gollum came to the door and brought me to the only room in the house with furniture or light. He poured Welch’s grape soda into the chamber of a clear glass water pipe and started smoking either crack or crystal meth. All I remember of that session is how he kept telling me to pull on his nipples as hard as I could and then barking, ‘Don’t leave marks! My kids don’t know I’m gay!’ After as much time as I thought I could reasonably call an hour, I told him I needed to get going. I let myself out while he smoked another bowl and returned to the porn that he’d been watching when I came in. Creepy? Yes, but not once was I afraid for my own safety. More than anything I felt sorry for the guy. I spent most of my time debating whether or not to suggest he get some help.” —Rusty McMann, a (traveling) Las Vegas call bear, retelling his “scariest” john story and refuting the notion that his job entails much danger, or sicko clients (via)