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Late one cold, wet November night a couple of years ago, maybe 3 a.m., I was sitting on my bed in a Motel 6 just south of Austin, Texas, brushing my teeth and watching the closing moments of a college basketball game on ESPN2 that had been played earlier that night but was being rebroadcast and whose outcome was still a mystery to me, when the phone on the night table besides me jangled to life.

To use a tennis analogy, I played all four corners in an attempt to interview clients. I hit up escort friends of mine with long-terms regulars, old clients who were articulate and thoughtful and guys I’d never met who had contacted me with sex work-related questions. I figured the client viewpoint—the missing piece, would be easy to obtain. 

August 06, 2006|Claire Hoffman | Claire Hoffman covers Hollywood and the adult entertainment industry for The Times.Joe Francis, the founder of the "Girls Gone Wild" empire, is humiliating me. He has my face pressed against the hood of a car, my arms twisted hard behind my back. He's pushing himself against me, shouting: "This is what they did to me in Panama City!"

On a humid afternoon a couple of weeks ago, John Friend comes to the door of his home in the Woodlands, Texas, a suburb 30 miles outside Houston, wearing a loose-fitting blue shirt, a pair of jeans, and a wide grin

If you wanted to get with a girl like Kayla, you couldn't be a wuss. She IM'd him again.will u send it? she asked.Yes. He would. X pulled down his pants.When he was ready, he pointed the camera, snapped a picture, and sent it. omg, Kayla wrote. u r so hot.

In the winter and spring of 1920, Harvard University’s Perkins Hall—then the largest dormitory on campus, boasting spacious rooms, brick corridors, and iron staircases—was home to some of the brightest, most promising young men in America. - See more at: http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/the-secret-court/#sthash.bMMbbqa6.dpuf

I worked in a strip club in a North Dakota fracking boomtown. I went to report on life in the oil fields and ended up working as a cocktail waitress. Here are some of the crazy people I met and the stories they told me.

An American soldier sits alone in a wooden box in the desert, trying to erase himself. Off comes the Velcro patch that says CAPTAIN. Off comes the name tag that says HILL. He positions the camera so it will show nothing to betray his identity: just a chin, a mouth, and the words U.S. ARMY on the breast of his combat fatigues.

Denis Flanigan isn’t hiding anything. A 42-year-old psychotherapist in Houston, he has a straightforward manner that meshes nicely with his no-nonsense buzz cut and neatly clipped goatee.

I went to Katha Pollitt's apartment one sunny afternoon last summer, bearing fancy sandwiches and a decent bottle of rosé. The sandwiches were our lunch; the wine meant more.

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