Los Angeles, 2013: Running my gay bar business was going great. I got paid in cash and didn't declare any of my earnings to the tax man. Before I would start work I would drink 4 red bulls and ride my bike 15 minutes to the gay bar. I would be absolutely fucking charged after 4 red bulls. I would then find a safe pole to lock my bike to (on busy nights I would lock my bike further away than usual because lots of drunk dudes pissed on my bike). I would walk in, and take a look at the crowd, and usually ask the bouncer "how are they tonight?" To which he would usually grunt or give me a smirk. I would go out the back and start pouring my vodka mix, I didn't know the vodka mix recipe but luckily my colleague did. We would sell the vodka shots at $5 a pop, and we would keep $1 from every sale. I quickly realised that I was working for the man. I'd read Robert Kyosaki's "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" and knew I needed to exit the 'rat race'. So within the gay bar, I start my own side business.
Here was the pricing structure: $2 for a hug: Standard hug, no more than 5 seconds.
$5 for a photo: A cost effective options for groups of guys.
$10 for a nipple suck: The nipple suck was a vodka chaser. Whipped cream is free and optional, you can choose the nipple, have a good suck, you've paid for it. I've actually got bitten pretty badly doing that, but $10 is $10 right, you understand it's business. (The nipple sucks ended up getting so popular that the price could very between $10 to $50 depending on busy it was. And if I'd already made $250 for the night, I would just shut down the nipples sucks for the night and relax).
Business was booming.