Love for Sale

Not many people can boast that they’ve been turned down by a male escort.  Well, I wouldn’t exactly boast about it either, but I have to admit that I have been.  Turned down.  There is some distinction in that, isn’t there?  I mean, those guys are paid to do all sorts of things.  Including sex.  Aren’t they?  For the price some of them charge, I should hope sex would be included.

This all came about after breaking up with a boyfriend who wasn’t very adventurous in the bedroom.  I’d like to think I am.  Adventurous.  In and out of the bedroom.  I’d like to think I am, but the truth is, I’ve never been promiscuous, and so have not had many partners.  All but one of those were boyfriends.  Or at least boys I was dating.  I’d only ever had one one night stand, and if you saw him, you’d have jumped into bed with him, too.

He was French.  Tall.  Broad shoulders.  Amazing body.  Built like a porn star, which he sort of was.  A porn model, which is close.  I knew this because he had his magazines spread out on his desk.  Opened to the pages with his photos.  A lure.  As if he needed one.  As if any guy who found himself standing in this French stud’s bedroom did not already know he was going to be in his bed within minutes.

After showing me those photos, he bent over to fiddle with the stereo, making sure to look back over his shoulder to see if I was checking out his butt.  Which, of course, I was.  How could I not?  It was magnificent.  Everything about him was magnificent.  I can tell you exactly what he was wearing.  An intentionally crinkled burgundy button down shirt.  Tailored to fit trim, hemmed just below the belt line, so he did not have to tuck it in.  Dark blue designer jeans, also fit trim, with a pattern on the back pocket which accented the beautiful curve of his magnificent butt.  Baby blue cotton briefs below that.  Horizontal pin stripe.  After he slid those off in one quick motion, I asked him to put them back on.  I’ve always found underwear sexy…

His strongest feature was his mouth.  Full lips.  He knew how to use them.  When he kissed me, which he did not do until the end of the night, I forgot for a moment that we had already had sex.

That was it.  My one and only time with a handsome stranger.  I knew his name, so it wasn’t really cheap at all.  Just more casual than I am accustomed to.  With this in mind, and while considering my un-adventurous recent beau, I thought that perhaps I should get more practice.  Or learn some tips.  From a professional.

It made sense to me.  If I wanted to improve any other skill, I might take a class.  Or hire a coach.  Learn from someone with more experience.  More education.  What’s wrong with that?  Not being sure how to go about finding a pro that I would feel safe with, I went online and ran a search for male escort services.  Republican politicians seem to have no trouble finding boys for rent that way.  Maybe I could find one, too.

After browsing through a few profiles on a few different websites, I found what seemed like the ideal guy.  From the South, his sales pitch was that he was a well-mannered, wholesome, down-home boy.  He had a face photo, which many of the other guys did not.  Kind eyes.  Soft lips.  There was a gentleness about him.  His hair was long, but not in a creepy way.  A promising start.

His profile had two other photos.  One was a shirtless shot.  Well, he had a shirt on, a flannel shirt, but it was unbuttoned all the way.  Revealing a sleek abdomen.  He wasn’t muscular, but certainly appeared fit.  In the background, there was a fishing boat.  He was standing by the shore of a river.  So he was the manly, outdoorsy type.  Even better.

The third photo was the kind taken in front of a mirror with a cell phone.  His back was turned and his pants were dropped below his butt.  Smooth, bare cheeks.  Ample, round.  He had been wise to protect them from the sun.  Better still.  If he could write in complete sentences, he was hired.

He could write in complete sentences.  I sent him an email briefly explaining that I was coming out of a relationship where things had not gone smoothly in the love making department, and I was wondering how much of that was my fault.  I wrote that I was hoping to improve my skills.

“I can help you with that,” was his reply.  Followed by a sly wink and a smile.  Cute.  I could almost hear his bedroom voice.  Seductive.

I wrote back with, “Do you mind if it’s technical?”  What I wanted were lessons.  Private coaching. Tricks of the trade.  As cute and seductive as he was, qualities which must surely be in demand in his line of work, in my case, a practical step-by-step manual was in order.  Place your hand here.  Gently stroke there.  Move your tongue like this.

“Describe for me your ideal scenario.”  Okay, it’s kind of adorable that he thinks he needs to press the breathy, let-me-take-you-to-heaven button on the jukebox, but seriously, I’m fine with the employee-at-the-Home-Depot-offering-time-saving-shortcuts approach.  Maybe he didn’t quite catch that from my opening note?

I outlined, in somewhat more detail, what I had in mind.  Covering a couple of activities my ex-boyfriend and I tried out without any real success.  Nothing crazy or out of the ordinary.  Just a review of the basics.  We could start real simple.  With kissing.  Am I doing that right?

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that this might become an ongoing thing.  If we hit it off, we could meet once a month.  Depending on how much he charged for his services, naturally.  After all, I studied with a driving instructor every week for three months before taking my road test.  I did.  He kept saying I was ready, but I wanted to be sure.  A similar scenario could unfold with this Southern boy.

“You know, you really have got the hang of this,” purring in my ear.  His cologne carrying me away to a cozy log cabin in the woods.  Deep South.  Still night.  Crickets courting.  Lightning bugs mating mid air.  No one around for miles.  Just me and him and the jukebox playing Take Me to Heaven.

“Hmmmm.  Not totally confident yet.  Can we do that last part one more time, please?”

He never wrote back.

Maybe he wasn’t comfortable in the teacher position.  Maybe he thought I was some straight frat boy having a laugh.  Maybe he suspected I was a cop.  Whatever the case, I never heard from him again.  I never got to meet him once, let alone become his prize pupil. Turned down by a male escort.  Who else can say that?

So here I am, right where I started.  Or ended, rather.  With the ex-beau and the same set of skills.  Guess my next relationship will have to be with a guy who is both adventurous and technically minded.  Or with an escort.  That would be one way around the steep fees….


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