Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Romeo
There's a saying about sex workers:
You don't pay a woman to fuck you. You pay her to leave afterward.
A stereotype about what men want. True for women too.
About half my clients hire me for a good time. They want me here for as long as it takes for them to get off.
But lots of people are lonely.
They want the boyfriend experience. A handsome young man who wines and dines them, flirts just enough all through dinner, teases them with promises of more, peels their clothes off, whispers sweet nothings in their ear as he kisses a line down their body—
Let's just say I've got a routine at this point.
And enough practice that my clients don't notice it's a routine.
It's not a bad gig, really.
After all, look at this place. High ceilings. Angular windows. Thick white blinds. The view of the ocean.
Silk sheets.
I’m naked in silk sheets.
What could be better?
I convinced my client to switch from cotton. To treat herself to a more sensual life. After all, she has the cash—her late husband was loaded—and she doesn't have many pleasures left in her life.
Why not enjoy this?
She wants a replacement for the man she loved for thirty years.
I don't blame her for paying for a younger, more virile partner.
And, yes, she likes the attention. But she also likes dictating when it starts and ends.
Once upon a time, I didn't think I'd ever find my way into a two-million-dollar house, much less an estate like this one, worth ten times more.
Sure, I could have spent my life mowing millionaires’ lawns. That’s what my father wanted for me. If I tended to enough front yards and saved enough money, I could open my own landscaping business.
But when someone hires Romeo to prune the shrubbery, they have another goal in mind.
Not that I blame my mother for picking the name. Not entirely. It’s not the name. It’s the poetic temperament I inherited from her.
When we were young, we didn’t have much, but we did have each other. Or however the story goes.
And then, all of a sudden, my great-aunt married into money, and we had a lot. And then her husband passed, and she passed, and Dad inherited her fortune, and we had everything.
Even after Dad died, we had money. And it didn't matter that we had each other anymore.
Because we had money.
Who needs class or street smarts or good behavior with that?
I went from a child who didn’t expect presents the way the other American kids did to a teenager with the entire world at my fingertips.
Not that my brother Daniel acts like he's set to inherit a fortune. No, my 4.2 GPA, straight-as-an-arrow brother worked two jobs every summer, earned his MBA while working as an executive assistant, and is still climbing the corporate ladder.
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.
Pleasure first.
It's a beautiful car. Fast, sleek, fun. Sexy.
Clients love to see me arrive in it.
If only it was a Ferrari. That would really sell the image—
I speed up at a green light. Enjoy the five minutes on the freeway. That's the beautiful thing about Orange County. Once you leave the coast itself, the planned communities are filled with wide, open streets with high speed limits.
Zero to fifty, again and again.
The ten-minute drive to my condo passes too quickly. But I can't enjoy the bliss of a job well done, because there's no peace waiting for me at home.
There's something far worse.
My brother Daniel.