Diary of a Masquerade 5

The Art of Hustling

They were walking along the seawall that curved behind Roxas Boulevard, the infamous stretch near Manila Bay that lovers claimed as their own. By day, the promenade offered lazy views of the harbor and the silhouettes of ships vanishing into horizon fog. But by night, it transformed. The salt air turned heavier. Lamplight flickered on the rippling water. And in the quiet shadows between palm trees and weeping willows, passion bloomed discreetly under the veil of darkness.

Antonio grinned wickedly and nudged me. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispered. “Same spot. Same swaying palms. Same desperate moans. Lovers on top of lovers—taking turns like it’s a cheap motel that never closes.”

I bent low, letting my gaze follow his pointing finger toward a pair tangled near the rocks. My ears tuned in. For a second, I almost felt complicit in their secret.

That’s when he stepped away.

"Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Someone's watching you two! There’s a voyeur behind the coconut trees!"

“Dammit!” I froze, then bolted after him, rage bubbling. I caught up with him in front of the U.S. Embassy gates, grabbed his collar, and yanked him close.

“Don’t you ever pull that kind of crap on me again!”

He was laughing uncontrollably, barely able to stand. “Relax, man! It was a joke!”

“Joke my ass. What if someone thought I really was a perv?”

He kept cackling like it was the best punchline in the world. We finally sank onto a stone bench under the long shadows of a weeping willow, waiting for my pulse to settle.

After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So, what’s the secret of good hustling?”

The question caught me off guard. It felt too calculated, too cold to be casual. But also… inevitable.

“What, thinking of trying it yourself?” I teased.

“Nah. I’m just curious. You said you’d teach me everything you know.”

“Did I?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.

“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”

I sighed. “Fine. But no double-crossing. I’m serious.”

He blinked. “Double-cross you? Man, this isn’t a mafia movie.”

“I’m just saying,” I replied flatly. “Let’s be clear from the start.”

When he nodded, I leaned back and let the lesson begin.

“The art of hustling,” I said slowly, “isn’t just about lying on some mattress waiting to be used. That’s amateur stuff. A real hustler is part therapist, part actor, part spy.”

Antonio was listening now.

“You start with observation. From the moment a guy opens his mouth, your radar better be on. Is he lonely? Is he manic? Is he drunk, high, delusional? You adjust your energy to match his—but don’t ever let your words exceed his. Silence is power. Too much talking makes you look desperate.”

He nodded slightly.

“Scan him. Check for physical signs: posture, breathing, bags under the eyes. Look for weapons. See if he’s carrying something strange—bags, bumps, bulges. You don't want to be alone with someone who might pull a gun... or die mid-act. Do this while you're answering questions—short and sharp. Yes or no. Always be in control of the charge. Adjust price depending on his wallet, but make it clear: the less he pays, the less you give.”

I paused, studying Antonio’s face. Still with me.

“Now here’s where it gets anatomical,” I smirked. “There are five body zones clients notice: butt, thighs, chest, shoulders, and eyes. In that order.”

He grinned. “You serious?”

“Dead serious. Don’t get fooled by thinking the crotch is the star—it isn’t. The butt? Should be square, not round. Round is for women. For us, it’s got to be solid, masculine, defined. The thighs? Full and muscular, rubbing slightly when you walk. That makes them imagine the rest.”

I stretched slightly on the bench as I continued. “The stomach doesn’t need to be ripped. Flat is enough—as long as it’s in proportion to your chest. The chest? Needs to be open, nipples forward, never slouching. Shoulders? Wide, arched like an eagle’s wings, the kind that own a room. And the eyes… ah, the eyes…”

I lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift between us.

“They’re the hook. The unspoken proposition. Eyes carry everything—desire, danger, defiance, or submission. If you mess up eye contact, it’s over.”

Antonio yawned.

I narrowed my eyes. “You bored?”

“Everyone knows this stuff,” he muttered. “You just described every fitness model on Instagram.”

“But not everyone knows how to use these parts. Hustling is performance. You don’t just walk into the night; you become the night.”

I stood up and mimed the stance.

“You wear black. Always. Clothes should hug the body. And if your body isn’t great? Fake it. Pads. Compression. Doubling up on underwear. You lean against a post—vacant lots, abandoned buildings, forgotten parks. These are your stage. You wait—not with eagerness, but with mystery. You don’t hunt. You lure.”

I took another drag, then exhaled toward an imaginary client.

“You shift weight. You cross arms. Tilt your head just right—not too eager. Tilt the chin, narrow the gaze. Let him initiate the smile. Otherwise? Game over.”

Antonio rolled his eyes playfully. “You sound like a priest preaching sin.”

“I’m a realist preaching survival,” I said coolly. “And once a deal is struck, be honest. Set boundaries—no rough stuff, no unsafe play. Be respectful. Polite. Clean. And never forget: it’s a business of loyalty. You screw up once, word spreads like wildfire.”

He finally gave a low whistle. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”

“I lived it,” I replied.

We fell silent, watching the tide roll back against the seawall where earlier shadows of lovers were now gone—replaced by waves, whispering secrets.


But on the street, he wore no name—only the eyes of a man who had seen too much, yet lived to pass it on.
2025-07-03 02:12:39
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