The Curious Case of the Divorcée

I see a lot of women in my line of work, but divorcées are one of my most frequent customers. Sometimes, there's an air of sadness to them, as if their former marriage hangs over them like a veil, darkening the outside world.

Other times, they're quite happy. To them, marriage was a burden more than anything else, something to be tolerated until the relationship grew so contentious it was best to part ways. Once they're finally free, they find an energy and a "zest" for life that they hadn't felt since their twenties.

The cab left me off at a high-rise condominium in Brickell, one of Downtown Miami's swankiest neighborhoods. When I reached her apartment door, she let me in with a smile, then kissed me on the cheek. She poured us both a glass of wine -- a rich merlot -- and then settled on the sofa beside me.

"So, how long have you been working?" she asked.

"About a year," I replied. "Since June of '08."

She nodded, taking a sip from her glass then setting it down on the glass coffee table before us. I leaned in and kissed her cheek, her forehead, then finally her mouth. Her hands slid across my chest, fingernails digging into my skin. Before long I'd pulled her panties around her ankles and began eating her pussy, happy to see that she was completely hairless.

We moved to the bedroom to have sex, which was fairly standard in terms of positions. After slipping a condom on I entered her missionary-style, and finished off flat on my back as she went on top. One of the thing I have to do that female escorts don't is "cuddle" with a woman for a short while after the sex.

Sometimes this leads me to work more than my scheduled hour, but I don't mind. A satisfied customer is a repeat customer, and they are the lifeblood of my career. I certainly wouldn't mind seeing this woman again. She had a nice apartment, real breasts and a waxed pussy. What more could a gigolo ask for?

I was just halfway out the door when she called me back. I paused in mid-step, wondering if I'd left my cell phone or if she wanted to schedule another appointment. To my surprise, she looked me in the eye and then claimed to have seen me before.

"Sorry, I don't think so," I said. "I've got a common look for Miami, though."

"No, I mean... Did you go to (a specific university in the area)?"

"No," I lied. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"My ex-husband and I would walk there sometimes during the evening. I used to see a guy who looked just like you near the athletic fields."

Shit, I thought. My college apartment was near the athletic fields on campus. "Don't think so. It was nice meeting you, though. You have my agent's number if you'd like to see me again."

Truth be told, she probably had seen me before. Hell, perhaps we'd even made conversation at one point. Plenty of couples used to come to my college to enjoy the scenery, and didn't hesitate to make conversation with any of the undergrads who appeared friendly.

The cab ride home was dark, quiet and uneventful. The thought of taking a client only to see it was someone I knew was a terrifying possibility, one I fought to banish from my mind. Being an escort was contingent upon anonymity, and should my cover be blown, I would be as well.