The Project

I have been with a gigolo for the first time in my life. Following financial arrangements with his agency, I met with him in an expensive restaurant. I made him choose the best dishes and gave him free rein on the wine (quality, not quantity, for obvious reasons), but said we would not do the five-course dinner because that would take too much out of our hotel room time. I didn’t say that exactly. I didn’t want him to form an unfavorable opinion of me. He got my drift alright. The restaurant was inside the upscale hotel where I had booked the most expensive room, called the King’s Presidential Suite, as if it was decided that the suite’s name should resonate with the entitled parts of societies in kingdoms and presidential jurisdictions alike. The double door, 120 sq ft, 5-room suite closed off a hallway with rooms on either side, like a terminus at the end of a rail track.

The gigolo worked under the name of Marcus. Scrolling through the agency’s database, I had been struck by his handsome and personable face and his superbly worked out body parts. Marcus was in the premium price category of $800/hour. This was exclusive of food, drinks and lodging, which were the client’s responsibility, obviously, as were, less obviously, travel expenses, which came at a fixed price. Only after I had booked him – 6pm to midnight, including restaurant time – did it occur to me to check his height, which I found to fall short of mine (I’m a tall girl) by more than 3″. I texted the agency, but they reassured me that I wouldn’t be bothered by the difference in bodily length. Picturing myself on my knees, on all fours, or prone or supine most of the time anyway, I decided to take my chances.

Marcus was as handsome in real life as I had imagined him going by the pictures on his profile page. I could only hope his body would not be disappointing. As we were being walked to our table by the maître d’, I allowed myself to fall behind to get a good view of his buttocks, which stood out in his black pants as if molded from the smoothest of natural resins. He would be wearing manly underwear – boxer shorts – per my instructions to the agency. He was broad shouldered, straight backed, and walked effortlessly erect like an optimally humanized humanoid. This went a great deal to reassure me that I had not been looking at photoshopped pictures of him online.

Marcus is part of a project of my neighbor friend. I’m that project. The project is to get me out into society, among the people, work less hard, and get laid (as a matter of urgency) rather than procure the umpteenth vibrator. I had been discussing male hardbodies with her when she came up with the link to the premium male escort agency where I had happened upon Marcus. Other parts of the project plan included visiting a superleague soccer match (soccer is a predominantly male sport in the country of my exile, and it is at least as violent as any American football game), dancing in a beach house (with music played by a Neanderthal DJ whom my neighbor friend was inexplicably obsessed with), seeing a live band led by a once famous radio personality, performing depressing hits from the 1980s, and watching a musical, loosely based on the American original (The Prom), about a teen lesbian relationship, in whose closing scene fabulous looking male actors, who had been playing dumbass squares throughout the show and that I had secretly been feeling very much attracted to, unexpectedly re-entered the stage in drag for no reason at all, or that reason should be to teach hardened squares like me a lesson. Execution of the project plan has been going on for just two months as I’m writing this – I still have ten months of scope to deal with.

In the suite, after a percursory exploration of its five rooms, we shed our clothes, embraced and French-kissed. I felt pale and frail, a mollusk, against the muscular bulk of Marcus’ ebony body. Marcus was XL in circumference, never mind length. It was impossible to introduce him via the main entrance, and it was impossible to sneak him in through the backdoor (not my favorite anyhow, because, if it may broadcast reverberations, it doesn’t connect to the inner sanctuary; it’s a dead end). I blew him twice, swallowing the jizz to at least have that of him inside, we spooned in the big bed, I ordered champagne and snacks, which we consumed, we went to bed again and cuddled and fumbled and kissed passionately. Then we dressed, I tipped him and we said goodbye. I made a tour of the suite and collected a condom, which he had worn but contained precum only, from the floor in one of the rooms. It was crumpled like any condom that makes you feel sick when you see it in the streets, but this had been worn by Marcus. It made me horny and I took it in bed with me. I solved Wordle #588 in less than two minutes (DITCH TRIBE FLIRT), texted the grid to my friend in New York as proof of life, and fell asleep, clutching the condom.

I had my breakfast at the hotel. Shortly after I had arrived home, my neighbor friend called at my door. I let her in to subject myself to a debrief. I bragged about the beauty of Marcus and our lovemaking. I didn’t tell her that Marcus had been too large for me and that, technically (in a Clintonesque way), we hadn’t fucked. I said I missed Marcus already. I tried to book him again in two weeks’ time on the spot, but he wasn’t available. My neighbor friend suggested a vibrator she had recently discovered and thought the world of. I looked it up and said I needed an extra parking spot in the garage for that. I made the purchase anyway. My friend told me she and her boyfriend had broken up the day before. After a sexual relationship that had lasted for months he had explained that he felt remorse at deceiving his girlfriend, whom he had consistently referred to as “the other woman”. From now on he just wanted to have coffee with her at her kitchen table. He had disclosed the name of his girlfriend’s dog, which was Gus. Extremely dexterous at piecing social media and general internet data together, it took my friend no trouble to dig up the other woman’s name: Alice. She had never told him she knew the other woman’s name. To know the name, or his knowing that she knew it, was not the point. The point was that he had never disclosed her rival’s name to her. A man has no idea of the analytic power of a woman’s mind. When a man, if inclined to soul-searching in the first place, has no more than started to scratch the surface of his clumsiness, a woman has already established with infallible certainty that she has every reason to feel insulted beyond repair.

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