Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
He works harder than I do. He always has.
But that's because he's a sucker.
We earn the same quarter million dollars.
I'm the one who sleeps in a twenty-million-dollar mansion. Once a month, yes, but still—
I have to enjoy victories against my brother when I find them. There aren't that many.
The shower turns off. I stand, stretch, get back to work. Technically, my client paid for service from seven to seven. Technically, I'm finished for the day. But a good contractor always goes the extra mile.
Dad taught me that.
I move into the bathroom in my birthday suit.
My client catches my reflection through the mirror. Even though she's seen me in this state a hundred times, she blushes.
She's a sweet woman. Even though I wouldn't take her home for free, I enjoy my time with her. She's an ideal client. Kind, generous, enthusiastic.
She didn't have good sex in her marriage. She didn't know how. Her husband didn’t, either.
He meant well, but he didn't have the tools to draw things out until she was begging for it, to use enough lube for her to feel comfortable (at her age, she needs plenty), to make her feel cherished and sexy.
Is there anything better than teaching someone how to feel pleasure?
I suppose I should thank my mother for that. But I can't exactly say, gee, mama, I'm glad you forced me to slow down, and taste the pizza, that's what makes me so good at making sure my clients come.
It's not just that—
It's the culture too.
American men don't know subtlety. They can't flirt to save their life. Just look at my brother, Daniel. So desperate to fit into the states he's as stiff and neurotic as a character on a New York-based sitcom.
I smile. "Should I join you, dolcezza?" I use an Italian pet name. Some clients prefer to imagine me as a Roman Casanova. Others like the image of a down-on-his-luck boy from Mexico.
Both are true. More or less.
Mom is from Rome. Dad grew up in Mexico. Neither one of them had much money. Until Great-Aunt Marisol brought it into the family.
When I first got into the business, I tried to play up my racial ambiguity. To be anyone my client wanted. But it didn't work.
There are versions of myself I can offer, but they have to bear some resemblance to the real guy. I really do love sex and pleasure and pasta and wine.
And I really did grow up with too little, wondering how I'd find extra cash to help out, how I'd ever pay my own way through school…
No. Women aren't like that. They don't really care why I started turning tricks. They don't need a college boy who's paying his tuition. (Not that I can pull off college boy anymore. I have to sell myself as a hard-up grad student).
They don't associate their money with their ability to buy a relationship the way men do.
Sasha, my best friend and business partner, gets a lot out of telling men what she's going to do with their money. My clients never care.
They do like some flavor though. The image of the boy in Mazatlan or Rome. My parents' truth.
Close enough to mine.
Besides, they're not paying for honesty. They're paying for fake honesty. That's what they want from me.
An image.
I deliver it with a wink and a hard-on.
"I should get ready. I'm meeting my daughter for breakfast." My client smiles, shy, content, hinting it's time for me to leave.
I don't need her to ask twice. I know the routine. "Will you tell her you came three times last night?" It's more than I usually tease her. I'm in a playful mood today.
After all, she's spent her entire life craving uninhibited sex where her emotional and physical needs come first. She must want to share her good fortune with someone.
I know, I know—who is this Romeo asshole? The world's biggest egomaniac?
But it's not that I'm the greatest lover of all time. These are skills. I learned them the hard way.
Her blush deepens. She shakes her head. "She'd ask questions." She slips into her red silk robe. The one I bought her for her birthday. The color of passion. Something to make her feel sexy when I'm not here.
A full-service replacement for her late husband.
And all on her terms.
A great deal for anyone who can afford it, really.
"I hate to rush you, Romeo, but she's coming here…" Her eyes travel down my body then find mine. She shifts, from cloudy affection to reality. "Your envelope is downstairs. Same time next month?"
"Of course, mio bellisimo." I blow her a kiss, dress, head downstairs. To the flashy red sportscar I bought for myself, after I first hit a quarter million.
It was an indulgence, when I had a perfectly good sedan and a hefty condo payment, but, hey, that is the Italian way.