John Locke - Maybe

But the guy who shows up to claim her kisses looks nothing like Richard Gere. In fact, he probably looks a lot like the very men she finds disgusting, and would never look at, much less kiss. That first hour will prove to be the longest of her life. Her client will go to the internet boards and post he had a rip off experience. After a few negative reviews the young lady will no longer be able to charge GF prices.

Those who truly offer a GF experience are few and far between, and they earn every penny they get.

PS means porn star. Women who promise their clients a Porn Star experience should be prepared to make a serious physical commitment. Clients who pay a premium for PS aren’t looking for missionary.

C stands for courtesans, the rarest of the elite. Courtesans represent the highest form of professional romance. You don’t just call a phone number and request a courtesan. You meet her in a neutral setting, exchange conversation, and she makes the decision to date. You want a relationship with a true courtesan? You’ll have to pass an interview, and give references for two prior GF’s. And yes, she’ll interview your references!

Courtesans are guaranteed to be beautiful, intelligent, charming, witty, fun, sensual, and classy. These are the women who turn heads at formal parties and keep conversations flowing. They’re also great listeners, highly empathetic, and have a thorough understanding of the three or four men they’re willing to date.

And they’re expensive.

A good courtesan can earn thirty grand a week.

Miranda’s a very good courtesan, my all-time favorite, and she’s put a glow on me I haven’t felt in a long time. If you know me, you know I live a high stress lifestyle. These sessions with Miranda let me unwind and completely relax. A few hours later, I’m ready to take on the world.

I’m lying next to her now, listening to her sleep. I kiss her shoulder and wish she weren’t so brilliant. If she were less intelligent it would take her much longer to get her degree, and I’d have more time to be with her.

See, she intends to stop hooking after graduating.

Wait.

I didn’t think to ask if it bothers you I pay for sex.

Does it?

I know professional sex is frowned upon by a high percentage of the population. But there are worse vices, believe me. And I can make a strong argument all sex is bought, sold, bartered, or stolen.

But I’ll save that discussion for the second bourbon.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this thought. There are three options for consensual sex, and two of them involve affairs. In other words, you can be married or single, and you can fuck someone who’s married or single…

And that’s it.

Single on single, married on married, or married on single.

Within those options, you can pay for sex or get it free.

With so few choices available, I try not to judge people. What works for you is fine with me, provided you don’t step on my toes. Yes, I pay Miranda for sex. But she and I are both single, and love spending time together. And when we do, no one gets hurt.

Which is worse, single people paying for sex or married people having an affair?

Argue among yourselves. It’s late, and I’ve got an early morning.

IT’S UNSEASONABLY WARM at 8:00 a.m. in downtown Louisville, and destined to get hotter. By 2:00 p.m. the heat index is expected to hit a buck-twelve, thanks to the legendary Ohio Valley humidity. But no matter. Dr. P. and I will be in Virginia by then. Miranda, too.

Miranda’s a real trooper.

After learning why Dr. P. and I came here, she asked to join us. I tempted her with sleeping in and ordering room service, and warned it wouldn’t be pleasant. But she insisted, and that’s why we’re enjoying a cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant, waiting on Dr. P.’s phone call. He’s across the street, at Jefferson Memorial Hospital, arranging clearance for us.

Miranda sips her coffee and smiles. Yes, she’s paid to smile and be pleasant on three hours’ sleep. But most women in her situation would’ve been happy to stay in bed and order room service.

At a separate table a few feet away, a young brunette in business attire is staring holes in us over a bowl of oatmeal. Miranda seems not to notice, or care. This is one of the many things I love about being with her in public. Miranda’s half my age, but not the least self-conscious about our relationship.

She says, “You’re beautiful!”

I laugh. “That’s my line for you.”

“It applies, though.”

I shrug. “Sounds silly when you say it. I mean, I’m old enough to be your father.”

She shakes her head. “Donovan?”

“Yeah?”

“Accept the compliment.”

“Okay.”

“Asshole.”

I check to see if she’s smiling.

She is.

The young brunette at the table next to us has removed her cell phone from her purse. I think she’s texting about us to one of her girlfriends.

“This is something I need to work on?” I ask. “Accepting compliments?”

“It is. But we’ve discussed this several times.”

“I know.”

“I won’t be here much longer,” she says.

“I know.”

She gets to her feet and leans across the table to give me a kiss. The local businessmen at the table behind her enjoy the view her short skirt offers, while the brunette beside us looks to be retching, as if she swallowed some bad seafood.

Miranda kisses me a second time and says, “You’re going to miss me, aren’t you?”

I kiss her back, and sigh. “I will. But what I’ll really miss?”

“Tell me.”

“Us.”

She sits down, reaches across the small table, and takes my hand. “I’ll miss us too.”

She sees the look in my eyes and says, “Don’t ask.”

“Too late.”

“If you don’t ask, I won’t cry,” she says.

“I already asked. With my heart.”

The intrusive brunette rolls her eyes, props her cell phone on the table and snaps a picture of me with one hand while pretending to signal a waiter with the other. Then she adjusts the angle and takes a picture of Miranda.

She’s annoying the shit out of me, as are the businessmen sitting behind Miranda. When one of them says to his friends, “Kiss him again, honey,” and the others giggle, I think about the popping sound their eyes will make if I burst them with my fingers. I always thought that sound was caused by a little pocket of gas behind the cornea, but according to Lou’s research, the eyes contain no such gas, and the popping sound has more to do with the clear jelly of the vitreous body needing a place to escape in a hurry.

Speaking of eyes, Miranda’s are gorgeous, and she has impossibly long, natural eyelashes models would kill to possess. She uses them to blink a couple of tears from her eyes.

“I’ll say it again, Donovan. We can’t keep seeing each other after I graduate.”

“Maybe not like last night,” I say. “But when you get your license, I’ll be your first client.”

“You can’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“You’ve been counseling me for a year.”

“Not professionally. I can’t counsel a client with whom I’ve been intimate.”

I frown. “That’s a stupid rule. Who could possibly understand me better, a total stranger, or a woman who knows me intimately?”

She smiles. “You’re not going to draw me into a debate on this issue.”

“Why not?”

“First, you’re too persuasive. And second, you’re right. But this license is very important to me. I’ve worked very hard to earn it. In order to keep it I have to follow certain rules of conduct.”