Deep in You

Then again, don’t nice guys hire escorts all the time? And what’s the difference between a one-night stand you find in a random bar versus one you contract, anyway?

Especially if the latter might actually be open to the kinks you’ve always dreamed about pursuing, but never found the right partner to chase them with…

I shiver and shake my head. No. Lara’s right. I’m just going stir-crazy because I haven’t had sex with a real live human in years. I just need to go out on the town and find someone to hook up with, that’s all.

Except that that’s never really been my style. The couple one-night stands I’ve tried have all sucked ass. And the time and commitment it would take—getting all dolled up, trying to flirt with dudes in bars all over again…?

Versus just ordering the sex I want online. From someone I could be completely upfront with about what I want, when I want it.

There’s something kind of empowering about that idea. The idea that I can just be totally upfront right from the get-go about what I want a guy to do to me…

It might be nice to recharge with another person for once, instead of just my drawer full of tricks.

So I find myself setting aside my crappy lunch sandwich and opening a tab on the computer. I do a search for male escorts with our town name, and despite the furious blush I feel rising to my face at just typing in those words, I hit the search bar.

A few websites pop up right away. The first few look sleazy as hell, all weird fonts and a million popups. I close them and scroll back to the search results, disheartened.

But then I notice the website beneath them. This one looks a lot more professional—between the header, “Sex the way you want it,” the neat layout, the easy-to-follow page setup, it looks like an actual, legit company. Not some scam site that’s about to dupe you out of your credit card details at the first chance it gets.

I click it open. Here to Serve, is the name of the website itself. And damn, just from the taste on the first page, if any of those men came to serve me, I know I’d leap at the chance.

I stare at the guys on here. From the handsome, hunky slim-jawed guys to the bigger dudes, more my type—the 6’5” broad-shouldered bearded Viking types who look like they could sling me over their shoulders and carry me off for a good hard fuck—there’s not a bad option in sight.

But one guy in particular catches my attention. Not least because there’s a scrolling banner attached to his profile picture that says FetLife Approved.

I’m kinky enough to recognize that moniker at least. I tap on his photo and scroll through his profile.

He’s 6’6”, with a broad, smooth chest in the photo and messy black hair that falls into his eyes and down over his ears in scraggly waves. His dark beard is thick and full, though not any longer than his chin, so he doesn’t have the scary Santa-beard thing going on that some of these guys do. But it’s his eyes that get me, at least at first. They’re a light gray, somewhere between blue and slate, that seem like they’re gazing right at me through the computer screen.

His topless photo nearly makes me lock the office door and spend way longer on my lunch break than I can afford to. His bare chest is perfectly chiseled, from his pecs all the way down to his washboard abs, complete with that V-line muscle that drives me insane, pointed like an arrow straight to his crotch.

He’s about a million percent my type. Like, if I could dream up a guy from my latest wet dream and force him out into the real world, here he’d be.

Caleb British, reads the obviously fake name at the header of his profile.

I’m into sexy, kinky ladies who know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it, his profile reads, just that single line of print below his other stats, like his weight, the amount he can bench press (far more than I weigh, which is good to know for potential upright fucking positions, I guess), and other essentials.

Then, lit up right beside that profile line, is a big red button: CONTACT.

What’s the harm? I think as I let the mouse hover over that button. I mean, it’s not like I’m actually going to hire an escort. But it could be fun to message him, see how easy this could be…

It’s like practice, I tell myself. Practice at being completely upfront with guys and telling them exactly what I want and how I want it before I go for it.

Besides, it’s taking my sex life into my own hands. Isn’t that what women are supposed to be doing nowadays? This is my idea, my choice… My ridiculous foray into escort-dom. It’ll be fine.

I hit the contact button and eye the form that pops up. The top half is normal—name, age, contact details, form of payment—I select cash for that one, because as legitimate as this site may look, there’s no way in hell I’m giving them my credit card details yet. It also says it needs my real name and an address so they can perform a background check to keep their escorts safe, which I think is actually pretty cool of them. It specifies that it won’t give your address to any of its clients ever, and won’t give it to any escorts except ones you pre-agree to book, which seems secure. I fill that part in without a second thought.