Here is a chapter, called “The Clinique,” that comes late in Aiden’s most recent book — his sixth. Other exclusive Sword coverage of the world’s hottest porn star includes The Sword’s Aiden Shaw Interview and some pictures from when he was a tranny. And be sure to stay tuned for my big Aiden Shaw announcement in the coming days.
images by Mark Beard
The Earls Court Clinic was a massage parlor. As the name suggested, it was in Earls Court. Although it was spelled clinic, everybody pronounced it clinique. Nobody knew how this name came about. Possibly it was a joke by the boys, or an affectation of the eccentric owner. Either explanation was likely. The Clinique had a sleazier image than the Burlington. This may have been because the owner wasn’t as choosy about who he hired. Clinique boys didn’t have to speak well, be able to hold a conversation, or have nice manners. And they didn’t have to be legally certified massuers. The only qualifications required for working there were sex appeal, having some kind of “look,” and being good at putting out. The Clinique tended to hire a more “Street” type of boy. As a result it attracted a different, fresh batch of untapped punters. Occasionally there’d by crossovers with the Burlington, the kind of men who tried every place and anybody. Obviously these men were not looking for love and I suspect that their compulsion hadn’t much to do with sex either.
The price for massages was the same at both establishments, but the Clinique didn’t have they yearly membership fee. Nor did it have a sauna, steam room, or gym, or make any other pretense that it had something to do with health and fitness in the traditional sense. All this worked in the boys’ favor. If a punter chose us, he wanted some kind of sex. We never had to do straight massages, the bane of the Burlington boys.
The Clinique was located in a basement flat off a very ordinary road. The entrance gave away nothing about the goings-on inside. But you might begin to guess something was out of kilter once you pressed the doorbell, as an elaborate chiming would commence.
When entering a brothel with the intent on having sex with a rentboy, you had to have accepted to some degree that suspension of disbelief was already in process. But nobody in real life behaved like the Clinique’s owner. Peter would answer the door with a servile, sweet, gracious manner like an actor in a racist British sitcom from the Seventies. He’d invite the punter into a room that looked like something from a Disney theme park, furnished with sofas covered in red silk. In one corner was a small, relentlessly trickling water fountain. Another corner housed a statue of the Buddha. There were many plants, all plastic. Mirrored walls gave the illusion of space, and the dim lighting was kind to all flaws and irregularities. Overall the room had a bordello meets jungle meet temple feel to it. Peter would encourage the punter to sit, and offer him tea or coffee. Only after he had refused was the punter finally escorted down the hallway to the TV room to see the delights on show that particular day.
When the doorbell chimed, all the boys straightened up, got in position, pulled off their T-shirts, or set about doing whatever their trick was to look as desirable as possible. Unlike at the Burlington, Clinique boys sat in a room watching TV or doing whatever we were able to in such a noisy, smoky environment. One of us would close the door and shortly afterwards Peter would tap on the two-way inset mirror to let us know that a punter was looking at us. If the punter had difficulty choosing, Peter would point him in the right direction by telling who had what size dick and who would or wouldn’t do certain things. Once he’d picked his prey, the punter was sent into one of three massage rooms to undress and wait while Ptere popped his head into the TV room and told us who the lucky boy was.
Some of the boys thought Peter’s eccentricity bordered on insanity. I thought he was simply unusual. He was from Thailand and English was his second language. But he was able to run a successful business and keep the police off his back, all while saving a fortune. He owned the flat that he’d converted into the Clinique, and although he was forced to close several times due to neighbors’ complaints about him being undesirable, he always managed to reopen. More than any other working boy in London I probably got to know him the best. He confided to me that he bribed the police, and showed me photos of his huge house and grounds back in Thailand.
Despite my dissatisfaction with the Burlington, the convenience factor made me go over to the Clinique. And it didn’t hurt that they were the Burlington’s competition. Besides, the Clinique had an edge that was totally lacking at the Burlington. When I first interviewed at the Clinique, Peter asked me to give him a massage. This didn’t seem that unusual to me. Only later did I hear that nobody else had “auditioned” in this way. Whatever I did must have impressed Peter; on a weekly basis, when the place was quiet often he’d call me in for a massage. So as not to be found out, he’d ring the front doorbell himself then knock on the two-way mirror as usual. I never knew it was him until I got inside the massage room. As a punter he was undemanding and only ever wanted to suck me off. He asked me not to tell the other boys and I didn’t. But the other boys could tell I was his favorite. Around me Peter would become coy, smiling and bashful, whereas with the other boys he was icy and weary, a strange mix. If a boy annoyed him Peter’s ability to speak or hear things in English diminished entirely. Consequently he began to depend on me. More often he’d ask me to deal with people he didn’t want to.
Initially I’d take the the telephone if Peter couldn’t understand what somebody was saying to him. This led to him asking me to deal with a customer he didn’t like, or to watch the desk while he took a nap. Eventually Peter hardly ever came out of his room. My guess was he was depressed, lonely, and simply not enjoying his life. How could he? I don’t remember him ever leaving the basement. He had everything he needed brought to him. Some might think this luxurious. I saw it as a self-imposed prison. He found the outside world threatening, loud, ugly — everything he tried so hard to avoid in the version of reality he’d created in the Clinique.
Finally he left the greeting of punters to me. Being less strange for them, I believe this encouraged busienss. There was no doubt it was also good for me. As a punter entered I interacted with him. From my days at the Burlington, I was well-versed in making myself seem sexy, horny, a nice guy. By the time the punter looked through the two-way mirror it was often a mere formality, because his crotch already had told him whom to choose. The boys sitting in the TV room might as well have been two-dimensional figures. Some of the didn’t even have the sense to move or interact with another boy. They just stared moronically at the TV. Had I been choosing, I wouldn’t think they’d be much fun in the massage room. Often the punter would turn to me and surreptitiously ask if I ever did massages. Unlike the desk staff at the Burlington, I did. This must have made some of the other boys resent me but anybody who’d worked at the Clinique a while knew that I always got booked a lot, whether I was on the des or not.
Within six months I was running the place. This included ordering and paying for things like the laundry service, keeping track of stock (everything from coffee to condoms), plus incidnetals like handling the cable TV bill and water rates. I was all becoming far too much like a real job for me again. Something had to give.
It's an interview with Phillip Aubrey: porn star, Spencer Reed's boyfriend, burp fetishist.
The COLT superstars joined a protest in Rome against the Catholic Church in order to make the claim that gay people are not pedophiles. There was a chihuaha involved.
I feel sorry for people with fetishes that can never be realized in real life. Take this Flickr user, who has to make do with his giants fetish using Photoshop.
I'm not one for bragging about intellectual accomplishments (it's something I learned from, you know, graduating with honors from Brown University), but Conner Habib is justifiably excited about his blurb in a book written by Carl Sagan's son.