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makingculture
Nov. 29th, 2020 05:24 pmmaninchargeCorrigan Molloy isn't usually the type to go out cruising. He doesn't need to, not in his line of work. No, not the official, above-the-table work he puts on resumes and business cards and LinkedIn and all that -- real estate, especially on the East Coast, is not a very reliable way to meet people. It's been lucrative, especially in the wake of several economic collapses, especially with his uncanny ability to predict the fluctuations in trends and capitalize on them. The long and short of it is that Corrigan doesn't have to worry about money, and hasn't had to for a long time.
Generally, due to the under-the-table side of his work, he doesn't have to worry about companionship either. It's been almost ten years since an acquaintance of his (Solstice, who would indignantly declare herself his "best friend", which is ludicrous) had partnered with him on the Hotel. An amorphous, vague name for what was now one of the most reputable sex work locations in the city. She'd handled the marketing, the licenses and the testing and the recruiting, he'd handled the location -- a newly-purchased six-story hotel, modest and unassuming on the outside, redone in lush aristocracy on the inside -- and the funding. It had paid off tenfold in the past decade, himself and Solly taking cuts of the earnings and insuring that the workers were protected, regularly tested and able to pick and choose clients. The world's oldest profession, in the digital era.
As the manager and owner of the Hotel, Corrigan wasn't necessarily needed to work -- he easily could've cloistered himself in his penthouse suite, maintaining his properties in Massachusetts or Vermont or overseas and never even acknowledged what was going on in the floors below. But every so often there was a potential client who reached out, via the discreet, hard-to-find website, or through word of mouth, who wanted something a little more...intense than the straightforward, vanilla experience. And, once Solstice had screened them vigorously to insure that no, they weren't wanting something akin to that godawful 50 shades of whatever book, Corrigan was occasionally inclined to step up, to shift into the Dom persona he'd lived almost full-time in when he was much younger, when kink in general -- much less between men -- was a rarity, hidden in secret clubs and private parties. Back in those days, he'd even had a series of fulltime submissives -- one of whom he was still Facebook friends with, actually -- though none had lasted more than a couple months.
You're so intense, Corry, had always been their ultimate, apologetic explanation for wanting to end the relationship. Not in a bad way, just...it's not what I'm looking for permanently. And of course, he'd always understood, knowing that his personality -- bossy, domineering, able to fill a room with his presence, but intensely focused, doting and attentive on whoever he was with -- could be a lot. Too much, maybe, for any one person. Maybe it was better to keep things sex-only.
And so: there he was, lingering outside a nightclub, pulsing with energy and neon and music, hands in his pockets, debating whether to go inside. None of his doubts showed on his face, though, long accustomed to hiding his emotions under a brooding, impassive mask. It was a gay club, which was technically not exactly what he was -- "pansexual, but male-leaning", Solstice had helpfully deemed him, which had gotten a baffled look as Corrigan thought immediately of cookware -- but it definitely fit what he was looking for. His last four customers, over the past six or so months, had all been women. That damn 50 Shades book was an insidious piece of shit.
Corrigan huffs out a thoughtful, grumbling sound, stepping around to the corner by the club and pulling out his cigarettes. He'd smoke a little, debate if he actually wanted to go inside and go through the song and dance (literally) of finding someone to go home with. Maybe he'd just give it up, pour himself inside a taxi and go home. Catch up on 90-Day Fiance or something.
Generally, due to the under-the-table side of his work, he doesn't have to worry about companionship either. It's been almost ten years since an acquaintance of his (Solstice, who would indignantly declare herself his "best friend", which is ludicrous) had partnered with him on the Hotel. An amorphous, vague name for what was now one of the most reputable sex work locations in the city. She'd handled the marketing, the licenses and the testing and the recruiting, he'd handled the location -- a newly-purchased six-story hotel, modest and unassuming on the outside, redone in lush aristocracy on the inside -- and the funding. It had paid off tenfold in the past decade, himself and Solly taking cuts of the earnings and insuring that the workers were protected, regularly tested and able to pick and choose clients. The world's oldest profession, in the digital era.
As the manager and owner of the Hotel, Corrigan wasn't necessarily needed to work -- he easily could've cloistered himself in his penthouse suite, maintaining his properties in Massachusetts or Vermont or overseas and never even acknowledged what was going on in the floors below. But every so often there was a potential client who reached out, via the discreet, hard-to-find website, or through word of mouth, who wanted something a little more...intense than the straightforward, vanilla experience. And, once Solstice had screened them vigorously to insure that no, they weren't wanting something akin to that godawful 50 shades of whatever book, Corrigan was occasionally inclined to step up, to shift into the Dom persona he'd lived almost full-time in when he was much younger, when kink in general -- much less between men -- was a rarity, hidden in secret clubs and private parties. Back in those days, he'd even had a series of fulltime submissives -- one of whom he was still Facebook friends with, actually -- though none had lasted more than a couple months.
You're so intense, Corry, had always been their ultimate, apologetic explanation for wanting to end the relationship. Not in a bad way, just...it's not what I'm looking for permanently. And of course, he'd always understood, knowing that his personality -- bossy, domineering, able to fill a room with his presence, but intensely focused, doting and attentive on whoever he was with -- could be a lot. Too much, maybe, for any one person. Maybe it was better to keep things sex-only.
And so: there he was, lingering outside a nightclub, pulsing with energy and neon and music, hands in his pockets, debating whether to go inside. None of his doubts showed on his face, though, long accustomed to hiding his emotions under a brooding, impassive mask. It was a gay club, which was technically not exactly what he was -- "pansexual, but male-leaning", Solstice had helpfully deemed him, which had gotten a baffled look as Corrigan thought immediately of cookware -- but it definitely fit what he was looking for. His last four customers, over the past six or so months, had all been women. That damn 50 Shades book was an insidious piece of shit.
Corrigan huffs out a thoughtful, grumbling sound, stepping around to the corner by the club and pulling out his cigarettes. He'd smoke a little, debate if he actually wanted to go inside and go through the song and dance (literally) of finding someone to go home with. Maybe he'd just give it up, pour himself inside a taxi and go home. Catch up on 90-Day Fiance or something.
