Escorting the Actress by Leigh James
Kyle
A few years ago, if someone had told me that I'd be a male escort someday, I would have had a one-word response: Awesome.
Now that I was an escort and hustling to earn every dollar I made, I had a different one-word response: Ew.
I loved the ladies and the ladies loved me, but I'd been playing Hide the Salami non-stop, and my salami was tired. That was depressing for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that I hadn't thought it was capable of getting tired.
Today, I was balls deep in a very horny, very plastic-y desperate housewife. Not only was she married, she had a horsey laugh and a habit of snapping her gum. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that she was over sixty and fighting it with everything she had—fake boobs, a perpetually surprised-looking face oozing with Juvederm, and lips so plumped up that I could rest my head on them.
If only she'd let me rest.
"Down, boy." She snapped her fingers at me then pointed her long, lacquered fingernail down there. "I only have you for another half hour, and I need you to rock my world so I have something to keep me going. Gotta have a reason to get my butt on the elliptical, ya know!"
She smacked me on the ass, hard, and I forced myself to grin. Elena said we always had to be nice and that it was especially important for me, as a male escort, to make sure my clients felt comfortable.
"You don't need the elliptical," I said, bracing myself. I could tell she was about to trap my head between her thighs and force my entire face into her clitoris. Again. "You look amazing."
She actually looked like something made from patent leather that had been left out in the sun to melt, but I wasn't gonna break the news to her. Her thighs closed like a vise-grip around my head, and I took one last deep breath—I was going in.
"Aw, that's sweet. I like the way you talk. But get a move on," she snapped. "My manicurist will be here in forty minutes."
I took a prettylong shower that afternoon, scrubbing every inch of me. I wasn't gonna think about that woman ever again. I wasn't gonna think about the woman from the day before either. But the woman the day before that was pretty hot… I might let myself think about her some more…
I snapped myself out of it before my cock could get thick and urgent, and I turned off the water. I toweled myself off and briefly looked at the wave tattoo on my shoulder. I'd gotten it when I was drunk and eighteen as a nice big fuck you to my father, who'd forbidden it.
Of course, he'd gotten the last laugh.
I padded out of the bathroom and threw on some underwear. Then I flopped across the bed. The worst thing about living in a hotel was that there was no refrigerator. Oh, how I missed the refrigerator in my old condo. It had been huge, and my housekeeper always kept it stocked with all the good stuff from Whole Foods. Smoothies, grapes, sushi, Indian food—my mouth watered at the thought.
And now I was at The Standard. With cheap towels, a stapled-on fabric headboard, bottled water that sold for seven dollars a pop, and no freaking refrigerator.
Let it be noted that I was fully aware of one particular fact: what goes around, comes around. I was living proof of that.
