How to Spot a Gigolo

"In a world of children in bikinis and grandmothers in fuck-me boots, the surest way to tell a prostitute is to look for the woman in the designer suit." -- Belle de Jour

Best. Quote. EVER.

In a moment of utter shock, I found that my parents had rented the first season of ITV's Secret Diary of a Call Girl. When I questioned them about it, they said that it came recommended on their Netflix account, probably because they're also fans of shows such as Nip/Tuck and, in my mother's case, Sex and the City.

Little do they know that their son is a whore as well. Still, seeing the DVDs and remembering Belle's quote got me thinking -- is there a similar way to spot a gigolo? Indeed, I think there is.

Of course, no method if completely fool-proof. Even so, I'd say the surest way to spot a gigolo is to look for a young man (between twenty-two and thirty, let's say), dressed in a suit and tie, accompanying an older woman. The suspected gigolo will be attentive and charming, often smiling and leaning in intently as he makes an effort to really listen to what the woman has to say.

Should the woman and her escort then disappear from the hotel bar or restaurant, that's a surefire sign that the man is working. Whether it's into a cab or -- most of all -- to the elevators, one can safely assume that the woman is paying a man for sex.

It's funny that people don't notice these things more often. Escorting is more prevalent than even the most cynical people could imagine. Sex work is everywhere, folks. And with the advent of the internet, I believe it's only going to grow -- becoming more popular than ever before.

In the Bedroom

Back in my old bedroom. It's both odd yet comforting at once. I'm nestled in bed, the rain gently pelting against my bedroom window. Even my old lava lamp is still here, casting blue shadows on the walls. I remember buying it when I was about thirteen or so. After earning money baby sitting, I went to Spencer's Gifts and picked it up.

My parents are sound asleep as I type this entry. They rarely make it past ten o'clock. I remember when I was younger, I could always sneak downstairs late at night and watch whatever I liked on cable TV, seeing how they weren't awake to stop me. It's then that I discovered such films as Blue Velvet and The Hot Spot and even the animated classic Heavy Metal.

If there's one thing that my adolescence reminds me of -- besides boredom -- it's discovery. Discovery of myself, the outside world, and the kind of people and places I hoped to meet and visit. Now, being back in my childhood bedroom, it's like I'm revisiting my teenage self, trite as that might sound.

Assuming I could travel back in time, what would the outcome be? Would my teenage self be repulsed at the kind of person I grew to be? Would sex work strike him as a field reserved only for those with tragic upbringings and drug addictions?

There's no way to tell, I suppose. And as I look around my room now, marveling at all of the artifacts my mother never threw out (books, CDs, old VHS tapes, etc.) I'm amazed at how much I really have changed as a person.

God only knows where I'll be in another ten years or so. Hopefully, fate and/or destiny will treat me well. I've certainly made a good life for myself in Miami, and I see no reason for that good luck not to continue.

Job Interview

The first thing you should know is that I'm not in Miami.

What began as an innocent trip back home has turned into something more. For the first time in about a year, I went on a job interview -- that is, a proper job that doesn't involve sex.

I still don't know what possessed me to send my resume, writing samples and references. Lord knows that for the past year or so, I've been earning a living by having sex with a variety of women in a variety of places. Their homes; my apartment; a mansion in the Florida Keys that was hosting an orgy.

And now I'm back home, a suburb somewhere in the Northeastern United States. New York and Boston are just a train or bus ride away. I'll admit that the interview was in one of these two cities -- but that's all I'll reveal for now.

As for the interview itself, it was fairly easy. The representative from Human Resources was kind, friendly, and eager to get to know me. Why did I choose my field? Why did I attend university in Florida? What led me to apply for the opening at the company? What about the company made it stand out from the competition?

Being interviewed is nothing new to me; my clients do it all the time, especially during a "first date". And thanks to my career as an escort, I had plenty of dress shirts and ties in my wardrobe. It seems no matter what career a man enters, being smartly-dressed is always a wise decision.

Of course I'd like to share more, but maintaining my anonymity is of the utmost importance. Rest assured that I haven't closed the book on my career as an escort just yet -- but I am indeed seeking other options. Either way, this blog will continue. After all, wouldn't it be interesting to see if I last at my traditional job?

Or, might sex work lure me right back...?

Lipstick Problems

This is an entry I've been meaning to post for awhile, but things have been rather busy lately. All I can say for now is that I may or may not have an interview for a regular job -- one that was in my field of study at university, no less. I'll keep everyone posted on any further developments...

But back to the issue of Lipstick Problems. While this might sound sophomoric if not completely crude, lipstick has a habit of staying on one's body after the act of oral sex is complete. In layman's terms, I'm tired of having lipstick on my dick days after a client is done blowing me.

Get the giggles out now, folks. It's a serious issue because should a client see another woman's lipstick on my cock, well, the illusion that I'm there for her and only her is effectively ruined. As I've said before, escorting is all about pretenses and false airs -- namely the illusion that the client I'm with is the only woman in the world I care about.

Of course I do care for my clients, but would I sleep with most of them for free? The answer's no.

So, what's a gigolo to do? This week, I finally went to TARGET and purchased some makeup remover. It wasn't until after I walked out of the store that I realized I could have easily ordered it online from Amazon.com (who now seems to carry everything under the sun, which is making Wal-Mart increasingly nervous), but that wouldn't have had the same amount of embarrassment, now would it?

Porn: The Business of Pleasure

Forgive me, CNBC, for stealing the title of your documentary for the title of this blog entry!

My introduction to the world of pornography came at a startlingly young age -- sixteen to be exact. I was in New York City over winter vacation, visiting a friend of mine who'd worked as an adult film star for several years before retiring.

Yes, I know how improbable that sounds -- but I assure you, it's the truth. As I've said before, I was never all that interested in socializing with kids my own age. The "adult world" was infinitely more fascinating, and I learned more outside the classroom than I ever did in it.

So, back to Julian and the former porn star in New York City. We were having dinner at a restaurant on the Upper West Side when a friend of hers arrived. He looked normal enough, wearing a handsome black coat and an even nicer suit beneath it. As I reached out my hand to introduce myself, he took a moment to look me over from head-to-toe.

"I need to go to the bathroom," my friend said. "Be back in a minute..."

After that, it was just me and the man. He ordered himself a martini as I sipped on my Coke, wondering if he'd notice that I was clearly underage. Much to my surprise, he didn't. I know this because the next thing that came out of his mouth was an offer to fly to LA and "audition" for his company.

"What company would that be?" I said.

He named the company and immediately I knew it was porn. After feeling my face blush, I calmly told him that I was only sixteen, and the last thing I wanted to see was him end up in jail. He laughed, thinking I was joking, until I took out my wallet and showed him my school ID.

I watched his face go white in horror before he began to apologize profusely over his actions. I did my best to assure him that it was an honest mistake -- one that people had made time and time again over the years. No worries.

My friend came back to the table, though I didn't tell her what happened -- at least not then. After we finished our meal and the excellent chocolate cake we shared for dessert, my friend and I hailed a cab back to the hotel I was staying at with my parents.

"I had a great night," I said, and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks again."

"Don't mention it. Enjoy the rest of your vacation."

When I finally did tell my friend about the offer, she was livid. Though she's not ashamed of her career in porn, it's a field she didn't want me entering under any circumstances. To this day, she doesn't know I'm an escort. And while I may regret saying this later, I can't help but wonder if meeting someone who worked in the sex industry influenced my later on.

Because of this relationship, I knew that not all sex workers were drug-addicted losers or in need of psychological care. Like I said, I learned more outside the classroom than I ever did inside of it...

Female Sex Tourism

We've all heard about sex tourism intended for males. The American businessman goes to Thailand or Russia, looking to get laid during a business trip. The prostitute he's with for the evening may or may not be of legal age. She may or may not be working in prostitution of her own free will.

I deplore these situations. The thought of any girl, anywhere, having sex for survival and/or because she's coerced into doing so is disgusting. World governments have little in the way of solving these problems, and instead focus on busting the street walkers and occasional high-end call girl.

So, what about female customers and male prostitutes? Are there places where women can go and get laid?

Apparently, there are -- but the industry of female sex tourism isn't nearly as pervasive as that for men. Countries like Thailand, Cuba and the Dominican Republic host female sex tourism, even if they refer to it as "romance tourism" or some other euphemism. It seems the crucial element in supporting the sex trade i to have men with very limited career options.

Basically, the poorer the men, the better.

Again, there's something decidedly shady about this operation. True, I get paid for my work, and I guarantee I earn more than some poor guy in Croatia or any other obscure country. I've never felt "victimized" because of my work and I entered into it out of convenience, not necessity.

The idea that women can became just as villainous as men is still hard for me to swallow. Tonight, I'll be watching Heading South, a film starring Charlotte Rampling, and centers around a group of women who head to Haiti looking for love. I suppose I'll determine just how "villainous" the women are by the time the film is finished.

Stay tuned...

Women Over 40

As I've said before, a good deal of my clients are older than I am. Virtually all of the, in fact. And while I'm satisfied with the women I get to bed on a weekly basis, there are a number of celebrities over forty that I would be all too happy to sleep with.

• Sandra Bullock. I find her extremely sexy. True, I haven't seen one of her movies since Crash, but that doesn't stop me from gazing at the screen like a love-sick teenager whenever I watch her old films like The Net or Speed. Aside from being very attractive, Sandra is bilingual and quite the businesswoman. What's not to love?

• Cindy Crawford. Unlike today's fashion models, Cindy has a body -- and an incredible one at that. Her photos for Playboy are legendary, as are her ads for Pepsi. Like Sandra Bullock, Cindy sounds intelligent when she speaks, and the fact that she's managed to transcend the fashion industry into greener pastures is nothing short of miraculous. Where other models have faded into obscurity and reality television, Cindy used her greatest asset -- her brain -- to keep working.

• Demi Moore. What she's doing with Ashton Kutcher is beyond me, but ever since watching Ghost and the thriller Mr. Brooks, I understand her appeal. Her voice is sexy as hell and I love her long, dark hair. The press always seemed to have a love/hate relationship with her, but I deeply respect her decision to leave Hollywood at the top of her game to raise her daughters. Again, I always felt that Demi was much more shrewd than she let on.
  

• Angela Bassett. I don't see nearly enough black women at work. I'm not sure why that is -- and I don't want to start theorizing, either -- but I've always loved black women. Ms. Bassett has been on the top of her game for several decades, and engages in a variety of charity work as well. Aside from being a talented actress, she always struck me as slightly... mysterious. I don't know why, she just has. And for the record, I thoroughly enjoyed How Stella Got Her Groove Back. Got a problem with that?

So there it is -- an idea as to who a gigolo dreams about at night. While I doubt I'll ever meet any of these women, I would die a happy man if I ever did. Smart, beautiful, successful, and most of all, REAL. No bullshit, no pretenses. Perhaps it's time I started actively looking for an older woman? Seeing how I'm not even twenty-five, I have plenty of options...

Irresponsible & Dangerous

Is my blog a danger to society?

Not in my opinion -- but that doesn't mean that there aren't other people who think differently. As I browsed through the messages at my Hushmail account, I came across a rather nasty email that insisted I was harming society by writing about my life as a prostitute.

"Your experience in sex work is that of a tiny, tiny minority," the e-mail read. "For a majority of people working as prostitutes, they are doing so for survival, and often against their own free will.

"Girls as young as 12 are trafficked into the US, Canada and Europe, where they are made to sleep with men three or four times their age less they be handed over to immigration services and charged as an illegal alien.

"And while I'm pleased to see you take pride in your education, I can't help but wonder whether you made any use of it!"

Wow. Just... wow.

I won't identify who wrote this email, but I will say that it was a woman. I searched for information about her online, but nothing of any interest turned up. Perhaps she's a member of law enforcement with experience in dealing with sex-trafficking victims. Maybe she's a feminist. Could be both.

While I appreciate her concern, the only thing I can say in my defense is that I have never partaken in anything dealing with a minor, and I am working as an escort out of my own free will. That's it, folks.

Still, I encourage everyone -- for or against me -- to write to me at JulianKaye@hushmail.com

The Best Sex of My Life

I really can't say who was the best lay of my life. In fact, I hope that it's yet to come.

Sure, Rebecca was incredible -- mostly because we had the kind of chemistry that no book or sexual self-help program can provide. That kind of things comes along very rarely, and makes for excellent times while the relationship lasts.

Still, there are plenty of other good times. Sex is a lot like golf. Sure, the game is fairly straight-forward, but each golf course is different. And as the saying goes, variety is the spice of life. The minute I say I prefer doggie style with a woman who's comfortable with light S&M, I'll have missionary with a girl who wouldn't dream of using a riding crop -- and enjoy myself.

Perhaps I'm just indecisive, or just unwilling to admit the best sex of my life has left Miami for good. But ever since I was with the client who loves cars -- I think I'll name her Ms. Hotwheels -- I've realized that pining over lost lovers and ignoring new opportunities isn't a wise thing to do. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Autoerotic Asphyxiation

In celebration of my 100th post, I'd like to talk about a topic that's been in the news a lot lately.

Autoerotic Asphyxiation is when one intentionally cuts off oxygen to the brain for the purposes of sexual arousal. Often, this is done during an orgasm to increase the effect. Unfortunately, there can be deadly consequences, with several high-profile people having died in recent years from this dangerous game.

According to Wikipedia, Autoerotic Asphyxiation dates back to the 1600s. Oddly enough, it was used as a treatment for impotence and erectile dysfunction (ED). Did people in the 1600s not know that impotence and ED are caused by blood-flow problems, not lack of oxygen? Apparently not...

As for how people go about suffocating themselves, methods and techniques vary widely. Some put a plastic bag over their heads, while others strangle themselves or have their sex partner do it for them. Other methods include gas masks and other complicated devices, though these make up a small fraction of known cases.

So, the big question: Have I ever participated in Autoerotic Asphyxiation?

The answer: Hell no.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not judging anyone here, and one would be hard-pressed to find someone more sexually liberal than an escort. And while I do enjoy a bit of LIGHT S&M play, being strangled and possibly killed is out of my league. No one ever died from a spanking or having their wrists tied to the bed post, after which they have hot wax poured on their...

Err, never mind.

Be safe, kids. Sex is wonderful, when done properly between consenting adults. As a general rule, risking one's life isn't part of the game.

The Ride of My Life

This past weekend, I was taken for a ride.

"I'm in the mood for a drive," the client said. "How about you?"

I couldn't help but notice the beautiful Mercedes in the driveway. The thought of speeding along I-95 in such a handsome piece of machinery was definitely pleasing. By the time the client and I were tearing across the Causeway, music blaring, I felt like I was eighteen again.

"Rides like a dream, doesn't it?" the client said. "I bought it last year..."

She went on to list a slew of automotive details that didn't mean much to me. Apparently, the client is something of an auto enthusiast -- definitely a change of pace from what I'm usually used to. There's something infinitely sexy about a woman who likes cars. I don't know why -- there just is.

Unfortunately, my hormones must have gotten the better of me. While we were stopped at a red light, I leaned in and kissed her, without any provocation. True, hiring a escort is probably provocation enough, but there are still some women who think that kissing on the mouth is something that escorts don't do. While that's true to a certain extent, I'm not one of those escorts.

(On another note, I've been thinking about giving my services a catchy name. Female escorts have the Girlfriend Experience (GFE). I'm thinking of the Gentleman Experience. A little derivative, but the Boyfriend Experience just sounds cheesy. And it's not like any of these women want another husband.)

On another whimsical yet practical decision, the client checked into a hotel at the beach and led me by the hand to the room. Falling into bed, we had sex with the balcony door open to the waves crashing on the shore. Like something out of a good movie, it was one of the best nights I had at work in a long time.

"Are you OK?" the client asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you. It's just -- well, this is one of the best nights I've had at work."

"I'm sure you say that to all the ladies."

"No, really, I had a great time. You're not like the other 'ladies', either. You're so confident and head-strong. Not to mention, I always found aggressive female drivers sexy."

The client laughed. She talked of growing up in Texas, where speed limits are really only a "suggestion" and anyone dumb enough to go under eighty-miles-per-hour on the highway might find themselves in the ER. She liked to visit home each Christmas, where the temperatures are cooler but still hospitable.

I've never been to Texas, but have heard wonderful things about Austin in recent years. The client confirmed most everything I said, while adding that summer in Texas is much more bearable due to the lower humidity.

"I'll have to give it a try, then," I said.

As the booking came to a close, I showered, dressed, and kissed her goodbye. Call me again, I said, and truly meant it. This is a woman I would gladly spend time with for free.

From Mother to Daughter

Had a rather interesting night at work...

I arrive at the client's home to see that it's not the client I'm meeting with, but rather her daughter. At first, I'm stunned. Why? I'm not sure -- plenty of fathers have bought their sons prostitutes, so why not the same with mothers and daughters?

Perhaps I hold women to a "higher standard", or expect them not to engage in such blatant acts of sexual consumerism. However, I'm never one to turn down a booking, especially when the girl was only a year or two younger than I am.

It seems she'd just broken up with her boyfriend and wasn't in the mood to try and find someone new. Like many young people, she just preferred sex for the time being. And have sex we did -- in her childhood bedroom, which still had a few relics of her past.

"What is it?" she said, as I lay on my back and looked around the room.

"Nothing -- it's just feels like a teenage girl's room, that's all. Not something I see very often during work."

"I'm surprised they kept it like this. I figured once I moved out they would have turned my room into an office or a home theater or something."

"Home Office," I said. "That's what my best friend's parents did. Whenever he goes back home he stays in the guest room. Better than sleeping right next to a fax machine that has a mind of its own."

After glancing at the bedside clock, I told the daughter I needed to get going. She paid for an hour, and that's what she got. I thought about asking how she went about asking her mother about my services, but decided against it. The last thing she (the daughter) wants to be reminded of is that she just paid for a whore -- and had her mother's help in finding one.

"Goodnight," she said. "Thanks."

"No problem. Tell your mother I say hello."

Status Check

Had lunch with the agent this afternoon. She called late last night and sounded concerned for me. When I asked why, she hesitated, then said she knew how much Rebecca's departure had to affect me. I agreed, but insisted I was still fit for work.

"Oh, it's not that," the agent said. "Still, I'd like for us to talk. Are you available for lunch tomorrow?"

We met in Coconut Grove. I ordered healthy -- chicken wrap and an iced tea, along with a side salad. It must have looked appealing, because the agent ordered the same thing. As the restaurant was rather empty, we started talking shop quickly.

"Your clients are still giving excellent feedback," she said. "I'm glad. I'll admit, I was worried about you when Rebecca left. The two of you were always... close."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, we were. Still, no use crying over those who've already left?"

"Very true. And while I'm happy for her, it leaves me one less girl. One that happened to be a top earner -- but I'm not that worried. Never had a problem finding girls before."

Once the agent verified that I was still in good spirits, the conversation turned personal. We discussed our friends, families, the kinds of things that normally an escort and an agent never discuss. I don't know why she and I developed such a close camaraderie. It's not like we see each other that often. Perhaps we just feel comfortable around one another?

(For the record, we've never slept together. A reader recently asked me that via e-mail).

After the check was paid and we prepared to go our separate ways, a stray comment from my behalf caught her interest. When I (somewhat) lamented my lack of a significant other -- hell, even a casual girlfriend -- the agent's eyebrows arched in surprise.

"You're meaning to tell me you can't get a date?" she said.

"Not that I can't get one," I said. "I guess I'm just not aggressive enough."

"Well then step it up! If you can work for me, you can get a date."

And right she was. Still, on the drive home, her statement echoed through my mind. Why is it that I'm so much more timid when Julian is turned off and I revert to the real me? Going through life in full-on escort mode isn't the answer, but neither is being a wallflower.

Of course, my deepest fear is that I'll realize that as long as I'm an escort, I'll never be able to have a real relationship -- that love will only come when I leave prostitution behind. With nothing on the nine-to-five job front lately, that isn't going to happen anytime soon.

Homesickness

It seems a client of mine is desperate to return to California.

This client, she's become something of a regular the past two months. She and her workaholic husband moved to Miami as part of his job, and thankfully he avoided being laid off in the wake of the Economic Crisis.

San Francisco -- her hometown -- is one that really tends to grow on people. Even more so for actual natives, who've been there to witness the city's transformation from hippie haven to the closest thing California has to Manhattan. After having sex, she began to reminisce about the City by the Bay, and how much she wanted to go back.

"This humidity is ridiculous," she said. "Let alone the traffic. And if you don't live in Coconut Grove, Brickell or the Beach, you can't walk anywhere."

"I know," I replied. "I grew up in _______ and still miss it during this time of year. Hopefully I'll manage to sneak in a quick trip to see what autumn is really supposed to be like."

Apparently, autumn is actually quite sunny and warm in Northern California, due to what's known as an Indian Summer. Weekends are meant to be spent outdoors, whether it's shopping in Nob Hill, driving across the bridge into Marin County, or taking a trip to Napa Valley.

"I've always wanted to see the vineyards," I said, and truly meant it. "I'm not much of a drinker -- a glass or two is usually my limit -- but the area looks stunning from all the photos I've seen."

"Oh, it is. You should definitely go. There are plenty of good deals in the winter, as long as you don't mind a little rain."

I laughed. "We've been having a 'little rain' here in Miami since May."

"Yeah," the client said. "And it'll be another month before the weather is bearable again."

Arts

It's been far too long since I picked up a paintbrush.

My materials came today in the mail -- acrylics, a few brushes, as well as plenty of canvas. I'm focusing on abstract art and still life for the moment, but I hope to move on to landscapes and portraits, too.

I've always loved the atmosphere one can find at a paint studio. From funky art students and equally colorful instructors, to the smell of the materials and just the relaxed vibe, it's one of my favorite past times. I've made a point of rediscovering it again.

I found the art world my accident, by posing nude for a few art classes. Despite my harping on about anonymity, these nude sessions were before I started my career in escorting. I was hesitant at first, but soon found myself quite comfortable being naked in a room full of strangers. A precursor to my current occupation, perhaps?

The idea for this entry came this past weekend, I was watching Titanic with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet. The famous scene in which DiCaprio's character sketches a topless Kate Winslet is classic -- and highly erotic, at least in my opinion.

I've photographed a client before, but never sketched one. I'm a decent drawer, but nothing exceptional. Not sure how my agent would react to me sketching a client, seeing how it would likely take another hour, one that the client probably wouldn't want to pay for.

Oh, and just for those who are curious, nothing on the nine-to-five job front. Looks like I'm in escorting until I come across something worth my time.

Armchair Psychologists

Nothing gets people going like an escort telling their life story.

Once a week, I go through the Hushmail address I set up for the purpose of this blog. People write in, some asking me questions while others just compliment the blog and my writing. I don't mind either -- in fact, I thrive on the feedback, and it's great to see people appreciating this blogging venture of mine.

However, there are some downsides, too. Mainly, armchair psychologists who think they can diagnose me with some sort of mental ailment and/or determine why I'm really working as an escort.

As I opened the e-mail and scanned its contents, I was tempted to delete it. Immediately, the writer began recalling the old stereotypes about escorts -- that we're all addicted to drugs, suffering post-traumatic stress from childhood sexual abuse, or trying to support the children we had out of wedlock.

False, false, false -- at least when it comes to me. Actually, scratch that -- neither Rebecca, Adam or myself meet that description.

People, if you want to see a crack whore, take a drive down Biscayne Boulevard in Downtown Miami at night. You'll also find plenty of homeless people in Miami Beach and even Coconut Grove (there's one guy who hangs out near the post office, harassing people for change). I don't advise going into Little Haiti or the Design District, though. While one can find plenty of interesting characters, those neighborhoods aren't the safest.

For the last time, I'm in escorting because I couldn't find a job in my field, and didn't want to move back into my parents' house. I get paid well, have no sexually transmitted diseases and am tested regularly. I wasn't physically/sexually/psychologically abused as a child, and the only drug I take is alcohol -- and only occasionally. One can find worse drunks at a frat party at the University of Miami.

Should I ever feel depressed, I'll seek out help. With a good-paying job and no dependents, I can afford to see a real psychologist, thank you very much. Lastly, I'd like to propose a question for those who are still -- against all evidence -- convinced I was somehow mistreated as a child.

While I hate to say it, men are far more likely to sexually abuse children than women. So, if I were abused as a child, it would most likely have been by a man -- follow my drift?

So pray tell: If I were abused by a man, why would that lead to me having sex for a living... with WOMEN? Shouldn't I have ended up in gay porn? Stalking street corners with the rest of the twinks and rent boys supporting their crystal meth addictions?

It's not that I don't appreciate the concern -- I do. But there are other people who need it far more than I do. Focus the soul-saving crusades for those who are truly in need.

A Novel Idea

Lately, I've been toying with the idea of turning my life as a post-grad gigolo into either a novel or a screenplay. Well, allow me to rephrase that -- I would be fictionalizing my experiences, hopefully making them even more entertaining.

While I'm adamant that not everyone involved in prostitution is either destitute, drug-addicted or a victim of sexual abuse, I realize that the industry itself could in fact make one's life rather... complicated.

I wrote a few script pages last night, centered on a young man named Gabriel who, like me, found himself having sex for a living after failing to get a proper job after graduating from college. Unlike me, Gabriel is based in New York City, a graduate of New York University, and even more successful than I am.

However, Gabriel's life isn't perfect. Taking a page out of Adam's book, Gabriel himself is gay, but finds himself sleeping with women to pay the rent. The real love of his life is a man who is unfortunately married. Trapped in the closet of his Wall Street firm, the prospect of coming out and divorcing his wife is impossible. After witnessing several of his friends get the axe when the Great Recession began, he'll keep up the his heterosexual facade for as long as necessary.

One night, Gabriel's lover is found dead, and the last number dialed wasn't his wife's.

So, there it is. I'll keep plugging away each night, hoping to turn it into something worthwhile. Oh, and to the one person who insists on e-mailing me, insisting my blog is a "fake" yet continuing to read it each week, I have only one question for you:

"Why do you keep reading it?"