When a gay male escort receives his first client request from a woman, things are only just starting to get bizarre.
Illustrations by Chelsey Pettyjohn
I am standing in the St. Regis hotel lobby and while it is not a particularly hot evening I am sweating profusely. I hate sweating before a job. I casually lift my arm and observe a puddle growing on my ill-fitting boxy dress shirt. I was told to look sharp and tidy, so I threw on some office clothes I’ve had since I sat behind a desk four years ago. They were ugly and outdated even then, but I put them on anyway and now I feel awkward.
Businessmen in expensive Armani suits pass by, chatting on their cell phones and saying things like, “Look, the bottom line is up when the ringers go down so you need to get on top of that.” I feel conspicuous and out of place. A bead of sweat rolls down my back, into my khaki dress pants and right into my ass crack.
Where the fuck IS SHE! She told me to be here at six p.m. sharp and that she would come and get me from the lounge. It is now six-fifteen and not a word from her.
I start to text her on my cheap, pay-as-you-g…