The gigolos texted me back while my mom and I watched Zootopia 2 beside her shell-shocked (puppy-mill-mom) mini poodle and my two bratty dachshunds. In these Grey Gardens, something’s always on TV, some doggy’s always under your feet.

“Hello and thank you for reaching out, Madison! There’s a first time for everything, but don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Happy to help you with your request.” – Danny

Danny—the older and more my “type” of the two prospective gigolos, all swole and hairy—sent me a screenshot of a table chart of his rates made in his notes app. Crafty! His rates ranged from 2 hours at $850 to 1-week at $27,000 USD. Outcalls only.

“Got it :),” I replied with a twitching eye, knowing full well that his rate would need to be negotiated down if he wanted a piece of this ass and at a hotel. I live with my mom for a reason. I am following my dreams (to get paid [a liveable wage] to write, and pay men to pretend to be in love with me until I find a man that I might actually fall in love with) while encouraging her to follow hers. So no, I don’t have a “job” right now. My job is to write, sell (my book and its merch, workshops, and whatever grubby treasures I find at the town’s trading post on ebay), read, edit, and beg on Instagram. I refuse to sell my own hole anymore, but you can buy My Gaping Masshole, my book about the hole I was born from on mygapingmasshole.com. I am giving myself until autumn to make “it” (real money by writing or at least a lit agent). If “it” doesn’t happen for me by September, I’ll revert to misery and stability, and apply for a corporate job. Yahoo!

Giacamo, the other escort—the more my age, pruned, and metrosexual of the two—delivered a much lengthier and more personalized response:

“Hi Madison, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for taking the time to read my reviews, that already tells me a lot about you. What you described is actually much closer to what I offer than people might expect. Some of my favorite experiences are exactly that: two interesting people stepping away from their busy lives for a few hours and enjoying something that feels natural, relaxed and real.

We could plan something simple and elegant [like] dinner, a drink, a movie, or just an easy evening where you get to feel taken care of without expectations or pressure. Chemistry and comfort always come first for me.

I also appreciate your honesty about not knowing what you’d want physically. That’s completely fine. I always let that part develop only if it feels genuine and mutual. For something like this I usually suggest a 3-hour date ($1,500) as a starting point, just so we have time to disconnect from the real world a bit and actually enjoy the moment. From there, we can always adjust depending on what you’re looking for.

To plan properly I would just need:

• Your approximate dates
• Where you’ll be staying in [redacted]
• What your ideal evening would look like

You already sound like someone I would genuinely enjoy spending time with.”

Eeeeek! Giacomo’s ChatGPT thinks I’m “interesting!” On effort alone, Giacomo won the battle of the escorts. But $1,500? Hell nah. But for the time being, why not cosplay as, and therefore manifest that I’d someday be, some hot rich bitch?

“Sounds wonderful and just like what I need!” I replied. “I was a provider before. The dates for when I’ll be in [redacted] should be solidified by the end of the month. I will let you know when I have a better idea :).”

“Sounds lovely. When you have your dates, feel free to reach out and we can see what we can create together. My schedule tends to fill in advance, especially in the spring, so once your plans are confirmed we can reserve something properly if it feels aligned. And for what it’s worth… you already seem like someone I’d enjoy taking out for a proper [redacted] evening. Talk soon, Madison.”

To close the inquiry, I sent him a gif of the blushing dove from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, because she’s so me when I have a crush. My love language is gifs. I send them to my friends, mom, OnlyFans fans, crushes, and ex-boyfriend—anyone I love, have loved, or am pretending to. They’re a better representation of my reactions than any casual text. My face can go cuckoo; it’s gotten me into an awful lot of trouble, shame, and fun. Once when I was in [redacted], an old man pedestrian stopped me on the crowded street to point at my smile and scold, “Does your face always look like that?” “Yes,” I said and frowned, then laughed behind his back. Once when I was in middle school and once again when I was in high school, some boys pulled their knives on me and I laughed Joaquin Phoenix Joker style. With much therapy and practice via mutual domestic violence, I’ve gotten better at realizing and expressing my anger. Right around the time I last had sex [with bathhouse butthead], I choked a dumbdrunk bitch out at an unhip nightclub I frequented in [redacted]. She had taken my tote bag and, when I politely confronted and corrected her on what I assumed to be a wasted mistake, she refused to give it back. My finger in her face, I warned her and her gay best friend again and again not to fuck with me because I am unwell! I said, “You really don’t want to do this…” but she wouldn’t listen! She wouldn’t let it go! She yanked the handle from my hands and repeated, “It might be my friend’s,” despite it promoting my beloved alma mater on its canvas front. So yeah, like a cartoon character, I grabbed her by the neck, wrung it, but stopped, dropped [her neck], and screamed for the bartender to get security before I hurt her. The dweebthieves realized that, no, I wasn’t going to let it go, so she gave me my bag back. Her friend apologized to me on her behalf; the gays get me. My friend didn’t exactly assure me, which made me feel like what I’d done was really bad. “Was that really bad?” I asked. Later, with newfound pride, shame, and obsession, I confessed my defensive transgression to my mom, ex-boyfriend, and therapist. The Holy Trinity encouragingly applauded me for my improvement. No shit, I would prefer to not jump straight to strangulation and start with a push or punch instead, but the body does what it knows, I guess. It keeps the score and choreography. And isn’t it better to do that when threatened than to laugh? My body is learning! How to demand no?

My ex is like a father to me. So, I jonesed like a junkie to update him on my life’s new purpose of self-correction through sexual solicitation, but my number had been blocked for the past few months. This happens often. And I get it—I do! Believe me! Of course! He has a family. Do your thing [without me]. I’ve been abandoned plenty. Don’t even worry. I see that you don’t! Believe me! What hurts is the ghost. It sparks intrusive thoughts and memories: he is dead, he was kidnapped, he’s in jail, he’s overdosed, he’s on a bender and on the run, he’s killed himself, he’s killed his family, he’s killed his family and himself, he doesn’t love me anymore and never has. Eventually, the panic fizzles out after enough time and cyberstalking to ensure that we’re all still breathing. The void became a blessing, granting me even more reason to hire a man to [pretend to] give any actual fuck. All my sorry life, I’ve been fueled by spite and the skanky desire to make “it.” 

A month after I reached out to Danny and Giacomo, three things happened: the dates for my trip to [redacted] for the event were finalized, a sexologist/writer I knew published her very own article on hiring a male escort before I could publish mine, and my ex texted me. Before choosing the perfect man whore for my trip to [redacted], I jealously probed into the sexologist’s rendition of becoming “Jane.” This—hiring a man for my healing and public spectacle—was a novelty and fifth-wave feminist movement I’d wanted to officiate for nearly 10 years, but couldn’t [financially or psychologically] afford to do so. I’m a victim! Her experience, as recounted in her essay, however, proved to be very different from my voice and vision, so didn’t bother, but rather encouraged me. Yum yum enablement. And so the movement moves forward! Her essay focused on the psychophysiological humanities of their interaction—she is, afterall, a sexologist for men, specifically. Her motive for hiring “Giancarlo” was sexual pleasure and carnality for him to take the lead. He failed. In short (and soft), he couldn’t keep his dick hard when they fucked. His unprofessionalism to not stay erect jerked her into performativity to get him “there” (hard and cumming). Could her “Giancarlo” be my “Giacomo?” I DM’d her on Instagram, “Did you hire Giacomo?!”

“Haha yes!! Did you?”

Learning that Giacomo struggled to stay hard for this hot rich sexologist and fellow retired sex worker annoyed me, then allured me. Straight for pay? Easily intimidated? Thicker body preferences? Something against BlueChew? Disappointed and aroused—surprise surprise! I am that cliche. And competitive(!) when it comes to feeling chosen.

“Hey, sorry I know it’s lame I didn’t know but baby mama blocked your contact,” some new number texted me. I figured it was my ex but I asked, “Who is this?” anyway. We caught up on [family] life, romantic love or lack thereof, and his plans to get “his balls back.” I took advantage of our precious, limited time like prison visiting hours, and sent him the first essay of my male escort series, “Are You There Jane? It’s Me, Femcel: My Journey to Hiring a Male Escort,” which refers to him and our dynamic quite a lot. It’s important to me that he knows. It’s important to me that neither of us deprive the other of any potential happiness. I twiddled my thumbs and blushed like Snow White’s dove as I waited for his praise/approval (my fix).

“This writing is SO fucking good. This is real fucking writing goddamn, it’s a breathe of fresh air. I’m fucking laughing and engaged also so invested and like worried for you lol in the way you want to be when reading. God you’re fucking witty. I love your humor. An idiot only sees the sex, it’s so profoundly about one’s journey with self love. That was a privilege to read. Thank you for allowing me to be a tiny part of your amazing art.”

He sent me $100 via Apple Cash. Thanks, Dad. Love you. We flirted, vented, and fantasized about reuniting for all of two days before he ghosted me again. Thanks, Dad. Love you. I sent him back the $100 and text vomit:

Hope you are all okay. Hear from you in a few months or something xo / Jesus Christ I hope you are okay. Panicking / Let me know when you can. Sending love to you and yours / I feel like you’re fine and just made up with your girl which is fine. Wish you guys the best. Please refrain from reaching out when you’re bored or missing me with no real intention. Makes me feel like replaceable worthless shit. I am not a mistress or some good time call haha or at the very least, let me know you made a mistake and are back to playing house. I’m too traumatized to be ghosted if there’s no emergency. All the best, homie. / I AM NOT A TOY / I just want to blow it all up lol / So we’re forced to leave each other alone / Do you know how many times I’ve Googled your name today? / I’m just a stupid memory nothing piece of shit to you / And then you have a normal fucking life and I hate it / Shit is so triggering and I feel so small / Like I’m nothing / invisible nothing / worth nothing / who gives a fuck / I do unfortunately / It’s just mean. / Selfish and mean of you to do this to me. / I’m sensitive lol / Like why is that not clocking to you???? / I am not a toy to be played with / If you are not dead, in jail, or something I swear to GOD… / I feel dead inside lol but do hope you’re fine and just over it / I’m ok now lolol / I’m going to block just cause the inconsistency is really bad and painful for me. Hope you’re okay and safe. And as always, wishing you all the happiness and love. Thank you for reading my essay. / Jk, I’m leaving the line open just in case. Would appreciate it if you could just let me know that you’re alive. Don’t play with my little heart please. It needs love and consistency xx

Evidently, I figured my number had been blocked again, so I saved his new number as “Shithead,” and emailed him a request for confirmation that he was alive. He got back to me. “Yes and sorry for everything. We can’t talk again,” basically. Cool, whatever. Thanks, Dad. Same shit, different man. I texted Danny and Giacomo, “I hope you’ve been well! :) Are you free for an hour on the 30th? Would like to start with an hour to see if we vibe.” I chose not to allude to my scrawny budget—it’s not sexy to admit one’s insufficiency—but my need to “vibe check” was still true. I’d hate to have to spend 3 hours of my time or money with some strange dude if I hated him; I prefer coffee or FaceTime for a first “date” for this same reason. Danny’s response? Horrible. So sadly ick. Hot Male Escort Gives Jane The Ick! First, he reminded me of his two-hour minimum with a winky face emoji. Then when I said I completely understood but wasn’t interested in two hours, but wished him all the best, he replied, “I didn’t deny lol. For the first time I can do 1 hr for 550 but will depend on what time.” Goodbye. Giacomo, his presumed limp dick, and ChatGPT pimp won the war with:

“Hi :) I’ve been really well, nice to hear back from you. The 30th could work. What time were you thinking? Starting with an hour sounds perfect… we’ll see how the vibe feels and take it from there.”

“Wonderful :) early evening perhaps? 6 or 7 PM?” I asked.

“7 PM sounds perfect. My rate for an hour is $600, with a $200 deposit to secure the time and the rest when we meet. We’ll keep it relaxed and see how the energy flows from there…”

I sent him the $200 deposit, no further questions asked. With a week to prepare, I visualized the clothes I might wear and the room we might meet in. The hotel room had to be 1) within budget, 2) spacious enough for me to run and/or hide from him in, 3) equipped with a sofa or seating area separate from the bed, and 4) bubble bath friendly. I love baths (my cancer is sun and my leo is moon) and don’t have a bath at home, so it’s imperative that baby gets a bath, and a good one at that, when I’m paying to stay anywhere. My little ritual. My stale dog treat. So comfortable and home. A make-do luxury.

Finding the “right” room was harder than finding the “right” man. There weren’t many rooms that met my requirements within my budget, and that made me feel like a child. Embarrassed. I’m learning that it’s beneficial to everyone for the john or jane to have more money than not. No whore likes to work in a shit room. Most tricks don’t want to fuck in trash. It strips away the sexy, slow-zooms in on the sad. Rooms I digitally inspected were too small, bathless, or pissed on by ghosts of sessions or boyfriends past. I considered reaching out to an old Sugar Daddy to ask to use his $4-million apartment, because he’d previously let me use it for weekend stays and my 23rd birthday party, but decided against it when I remembered him as a man. I was certain he’d beg to watch my session with Giacomo, or install and hide a nanny cam inside of one of his children’s toys to watch and jerk off to later, and I just don’t have the time or mental capacity to deal with that. Finally, I unburied and booked an affordable-enough pink and grey semi-suite room with a bath, sofa, and rooftop pool at a 5-star hotel through a cashback app and with afterpay. Just $100 over budget, but this trick uses layaway! I did not choose it for its wall art or location.

Day of session. Two hours before it began (5 PM). I waddled into the still, boutique hotel lobby with a bunch of bags, tote and purse pockets stuffed to the max with comfy clothes, medication maracas (Sertraline, Clonidine, Hydroxyzine, Propranolol, Benadryl, Zyrtec, Zantac, and Ibuprofen), one plum purple lingerie set, bath bomb, razor, pair of hair scissors, hyaluronic acid, niacinamide, moisturizer, spf, body lotion, petroleum jelly, vibrator, vibrator charger, and my laptop. Earlier that day, I’d been a guest on a podcast, so I wore hot pink lipstick that matched my pink and black wrap dress, sparkly nylons, and dirty, fuzzy slide-on slippers. I lean towards disheveled, even when I’m done up. Some people and I think it’s cute. Some people and I don’t. I killed the concierge with kindness, because I’d read a few reviews that the hotel’s concierges could turn into bitches that rolled their eyes and piled on surprise additional charges if they didn’t like you. I doubted that was true, but wanted to be safe anyway. Always. Anyways… the room was great! Except for a ratty throw pillow and the wall art: an assemblage of wannabe film noir nature and portrait photography, obviously taken at [redacted] Park. Bigger than expected. Clean roomy. And that bath! Oh baby!

“At the hotel :),” I texted my mom who knows all about her femcel, retired whore, crazy writer daughter’s newest “thing” for soliciting men. I provided Giacomo with the address. I threw my hair up in a messy bun and kicked my pretty clothes off before grabbing the scissors and entering the shower. In that glass box and with those scissors, I trimmed my mangy bush, starting with the valleys of the “v,” working inward towards my innards. Pubic hair salon. Snip, snip. Sting. Oh? No! Did I just cut my lip?! It bleeds! My cunt! I cut my pussy. The slimy meat. It didn’t hurt; they’re tough down there. And so soft! I let it bleed, whatever, and turned the hot water on. I shaved my labia majora and asshole clean. Bush on top. Then my legs—not above the knee—which I also accidentally cut up. I scrubbed my skin, pits, crack, and lips with hotel soap to get the lipstick off. Squeaky clean and irritated! I never cared this much for a john, I thought.

A text from Giacomo: “I might be able to come a little earlier, would that work for you? No pressure at all, just let me know what feels best <3”

Before I replied, I slathered my body with green apple lotion, and globbed my bleeding cuts and lip with petroleum jelly. Slick like a virgin slug. I kept the day’s makeup on but blotted my oily skin dry with a cotton pad. The process of readiment was treasured. I hadn’t cared to prepare my full body for anyone in a while. I dry-swallowed a Propranolol and walked around the perfect room to air dry. Pink curtains, thick and wide. A scrumptious king sized bed. Fiji water and candy in the minibar. 2 bathrobes in the closet. A desk and stationary tray with a notepad, 2 pens, and a stack of envelopes. I moved the stationary tray to the coffee table in case I wanted us to doodle or play hangman. I put the remaining $400 in an envelope and set it on the desk. I texted him back: “Yes that works :).”

“On my way :) I’ll text you when I get there!”

If the TV doesn’t work, I’ll kill myself, I thought as I fumbled with the remote to turn it on. Not only did it work, but it also played Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, a favorite and familiar movie of mine. A gift from God or Dumbledore! I’m not transphobic, I’m mentally ill. Just let me fucking have this, mmkay? I set the volume low enough for conversation, but loud enough to bring me back from dissociation or panic attack. Something I miss and loved about my ex was his accommodation to my dissociation, in general, but more specifically during sex. I’ve yet to meet another man who catches my drift, nevermind stops himself from fucking me through it. In the bathroom, I pissed and dressed: a baby blue tennis skort and a raggedy t-shirt cut in half—no bra or underwear on. Tits hung loose. I took a mirror-selfie and posted it to my close friends’ story with big white text that read, “Cutest john I’ve ever seen shiiiiii…” I deodorized and brushed my teeth, then sat on the corner of the bed until I got the text, “I’m here outside.”

How handsome and tall! Giacomo was, dressed in a camel wool peacoat and black suit. My 5 '9 ass felt oddly ittybitty next to him as we hugged and he said, “It’s good to see you” like we’d seen each other before. He smelled European: Mediterranean Sea spray and musk. He looked European with a cleancut lineup and black stud earring in his left ear. I commented (to myself) that he’d look much hotter scuffed up. Still objectively hot, though. I led, and he followed me to the elevator.

“How was your day?” I asked him.

“Good,” he said. “I packed. I’m going to Miami in a couple of days.”

“Oh, nice! I love Miami. For work or pleasure?”

“Both.”

“I get that…”

A middle-aged woman struggling to carry a case of canned beer joined us in the elevator and requested I push floor 5.

“Of course!” I said. “Having a party?” I asked, emitting my cheeky, charming smile.

“No, just me! I love beer. So whenever I travel, I get a bunch of new beers to try.”

“Ooo! Someone’s gonna have a fun night,” I celebrated and judged.

She got off on the fifth floor. When the doors closed behind her, Giacomo and I both raised our eyebrows at each other, and snickered like what the fuck? Hope she doesn’t drink it all at once! We arrived at my floor, floor 6. I bounced as I walked him like a Tibetan Mastiff to the room door, wondering if he’d ever been to this hotel before. “Have you been to this hotel before?” I asked. He hadn’t.

In the suite, I offered him a $9 minibar Fiji water like a boss. He accepted. Mommy takes care of her bitches. He took a baby swig, then placed the bottle on the desk before wilting off his peacoat and swinging it over the back of the cuck chair (standard for any hotel room). His overdress to my underdress double-downed on my power. I sat criss-cross-applesauce on the corner of the bed as I examined him examining the space and taking off his suit jacket.

“This is a nice room,” he seemed impressed.

“Yeah, not bad at all!” I said. “But I hate the artwork.”

He skimmed over the bad photographs and agreed that it wasn’t great. According to him, he’d worked as an art dealer in Italy. Paintings. He asked if I spoke any Italian. Not a lick. He moved closer to me and I scooted my booty back to the opposite, farther corner of the bed.

“Harry Potter! and the…”

“Goblet of Fire!” I helped.

“Harry Potter e il calice di fuoco,” he translated. “I love Harry Potter. I am actually a big nerd. I played a lot of Hogwarts Legacy at home.”

“Is that like a video game?” I asked.

“Yes! So fun. I ‘Avada Kedavra’ everyone.” He relaxed onto the bed and stretched out his long legs, still in dress pants. I pulled my naked knees to my chest and abashedly smiled at him.

“What house are you in?” I asked.

“Slytherin,” he winked.

“Me too!” I exclaimed.

“We are cunning…”

“And a little evil…”

“I like them evil,” he winked again.

We talked about horses and how we both liked to ride, his uncle’s horse farm, my wiener dogs, and his maltese back home in Italy.

“I love nature,” I proclaimed like it was something special. “Do you miss your family?” I asked.

“All the time.”

I let my knees drop to the sides. He stirred his hands and twisted his lips as he spoke like he’d never been anxious before. Badly, I wanted him to grab me—shock my system into submission and play. Then again, not at all. I probably would’ve punched him. If he had been my [ex] boyfriend, I would’ve already jumped him. When I’m safe, I’m predatory. Next, we discussed the “industry,” how we both got into and liked sex work. His origin story: while on the clock as a security guard for [redacted] in Italy, he was approached and monetarily persuaded by a horny older woman. “I want to fuck you. I’ll give you €500,” he mimicked her offering with a sultry, low whisper. And who was he to say no? He’s done it ever since.

“I didn’t really like it when I did it,” I confessed.

“Well, men are gross,” he said. “Men move with their…” he pointed to his groin. “Women move with their hearts. Women just want someone to listen.” He gestured to me like you get it. “You’re a beautiful girl. If you just wanted to have sex, you could at any time. Find any guy. You don’t need to do this.”

“I know,” I coquettishly said, appreciative of him [finally] acknowledging my beauty. The subtle compliment opened me up. Is there anything better than two beautiful people talking shit together? I laid it on him thick and complained about the men in my DMs and dating apps, all either ugly (to me), boring, and/or jumping to propose their perversions because I write and joke and make art about sex. Stupid, he agreed.

“I don’t like American men,” I admitted.

“They don’t know how to treat women or sex. ‘Football!’” he mocked.

“‘Big tits and beer!’” I made a dumbdrool face and mocked back.

He laughed and asked if he could get more comfortable, removing his loafers and button down until he bared his feet, arms, and wifebeater. He was much more ripped in person than in his pictures. Another gift from God or Dumbledore. He looked better in a wifebeater.

“What’s your type?” I asked. “Blondes?” I assumed. Italian men like blondes. Maybe I made that up.

“No, I prefer brunettes actually. Redheads too. Spicy.” He laid back in bed. “I go through phases. I had an asian baddie phase. You know, girls with tattoos. Any girl that’s not Italian. What’s your type?”

“Tan. Muscular. Brunette.” I ruffled his curly, greying hair with my hand. “You’re going grey.”

“I am.”

“I like muscles,” I repeated.

He flexed his bicep and nodded his head towards it to tell me to touch it. I did as I was gestured to and eagerly. A hard man is a good man. I’m sorry, I just can’t get with a flabby armed man.

“Mmmm,” I purred, admiring his muscle mound. “I might still love my ex,” I interrupted myself, thinking of his croissant-like build. 1920s wrestler body. Tears swelled somewhere. The salt burned behind my face, so I swallowed it. “That’s also why I’m doing this. It’s hard for me to get close to people. Men, especially. I’m healing.”

“Healing from what?” Giacomo asked. I shrugged. He touched the tip of my knee darlingly.

“Can I put my legs on yours?” I asked. What a nerd! But precious, and I’m proud of that! If I’d done this just five years ago, I’d be on another planet (psychically), with his dick already halfway down my gullet. That’s the dream situation/session for many men. They pay for it. Not mine. If a dick’s in my throat, I’d like to be there for it.

“Of course you can!” He assured me.

“I don’t want to ruin your nice pants…”

“Oh stop it. Ruin them,” he pulled me into a cradle, placing my head against his chest. I laid there stiff—body-bound rigor mortis—as we watched Harry, Ron, and Hermione convene at The Yule Ball. He petted my head with one hand and held my fist with the other until it relaxed into a hand. I braced my left thigh around his waist. He lassoed his right foot around my left calf to pull me in closer to him. A+ snuggler. I breathed to chill.

“You smell good,” I said.

“Smell my neck if you’d like.”

So, I sniffed him like a poky puppy and gave his cologned neck a little kiss. Just a peck, like if I had licked or really kissed him, either he or I would’ve apparated to purgatory. I sighed and pulled my lips away, but he pinched my chin and tilted my mouth up to his. He kissed me… with tongue! Immediately! Yes! God! Hungry tonguing, sucking, pushing, pulling, eating, and fucking a man’s good tongue is God to me. Obviously only if he tongues well. Giacomo kissed and tongued well. One time, some dumbass townie I made out with told me that I kiss like I “have a penis.” I took that as a compliment, my tongue like a sword. Giacomo pushed his body on top of mine and shoved his tongue further down my wet trap. We swapped and spooned our spit and tongues, while he swept my bangs from off my face. His cock grew hard as he grinded it against my thigh. He reached for my throat and clamped down and in on it, cupping it with his beefy hand. I’m a fan of strangulation in certain contexts, but his immediacy to do it and without asking freaked me out. I molded into the mattress and evaporated into air. He felt it—my body’s deflate and croak—and rolled himself onto his back to serve me more big spoon.

We hugged each others’ bodies tighter and more tied together like a tongue-knotted cherry stem. Our muscles flexed in unison, sinking us closer and into one big sedimentary boulder. He nuzzled my thick hair. His heartbeat humped my ear. I, Little Bear, burrowed in his muscle cave. I cried silently but obviously, with specks of wet dripping down my cheeks and into the cotton of his soft wifebeater. Being safely held is bittersweet. It’s a release and a trigger. I moan and mourn my little girl, pre-teen, teen, and twenties bodies. I’ve been paper thin and alone for so long. I hate [almost] everyone. The hug felt like love and the death of it. The radical acceptance of man.

I snapped my neck out of it and turned my gaze to the TV. “Mad-Eye Moody might be my favorite,” I declared.

“Malocchio Moody,” Giacomo corrected to his tongue. “Do you feel okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Much better,” I sighed.

“Good.”

“What are your dreams?” I asked.

He admitted to wanting to travel the world to do whatever, whenever. Own properties. Cook. He used to model in China. He went to cooking school for five years. He’s a certified chef. He loves sushi, Korean BBQ, and Mediterranean food—Morrocan food. Me too. Morocco is my favorite place in the world (so far). He likes Italian food too, of course, but he doesn’t eat it often as he tries to stay fit, but “If you want me to cook you a carbonara with prosciutto on top, I’ll do that for you,” he said. “You can be my sous chef.”

“I’d probably fuck it up. I can be clumsy.”

“I’ll teach you.” Then, he put his warm cheek between my neck and shoulder, and gravelly whispered Italian in my ear. Something sexy, I presumed. His hot breath and Rico Suave tickled me.

I giggled, “Did you just call me a dumb bitch or something?” We laughed. He whipped off his wifebeater for “skin to skin contact,” and wrapped his brawny bear arms around me again. So toasty. Baby mode. His paw claws near my mouth, I chomped my bunny buckteeth at them.

“I’m gonna bite your fingers off,” I threatened.

“So do it,” he teased before shoving them in my mouth. I swished them around like mouthwash, then spit them out.

“Did you stay here last night?” he asked.

“No, I stayed with my friend.”

“Did you girls party?”

“Noooo. I’m a good girl,” and I meant it. I am a good girl. This turned him on. It was easy to tell, because he grabbed a handful of my ass and pulled me in, smashing his lips into my two front teeth. We made out again. This time, harder and more aggressively. Better. I think we shared a… connection? Sexual chemistry? Yes. He slobbered all over my earlobe and drum, and pigged-out on my puffy nipples. His fingertips strained for my clit over the shorts of my skort, but missed. He rubbed just to the left of it. He is a human. I let him tickle the wrong spot without correction. I sucked his bubblegum bottom lip. He smacked my ass, making a sound like a clasp. It didn’t hurt. It was skillful. Ran through slut! He pushed himself between my thighs, grabbed my fat ass from under me, pulled me close, and rocked my hips back and forth against his cock, still concealed but hard in his pants. I’m a bitchy tease, so with devilish glee, I determined that he’d had enough. I stopped engaging and slid out from under him. He rolled over on his back, puffed, and sighed. Good boy.

“You like my ass, huh?” I asked, showing off one effortless twerk. Speechless. Confused? He nodded, playfully annoyed.

“I’m so funny!” I laughed. Denying the male escort my sex. “You’re a freak!” I chastised.

“So what?” he rebutted. “You don’t like freaks?”

“Duh, I do. I’m a freak too,” I taunted. I straddled him like a pony and played with his skin.

“It’s been almost two years since I last had sex,” I told him. His eyes bulged and lips parted slightly open.

“What?! Why wait so long?” he asked.

“I’m a good girl! Duh!”

As if I held a camera—as if I were Terry Richardson, and he, my teenage prey—he placed his hands behind his head to show off his best Abercrombie and Fitch pose and pretty boy biceps. I felt him up. Are we competing? Who is hotter and more wanted? I slapped him across his stupid-cute face and pretzel-locked my arms through his arms’ negative space, anchoring my full body weight down into his ribcage. My thighs squeezed his hips together. Crush, pop, and ooze him like a Gusher. I muffled my mouth with his neck and breathed. Borderline psychopathic in the wrong company. A pump later, he maneuvered his arms out from under my grip, proving that I'm a strong woman but a weak bitch, and grabbed my ass cheeks with both hands. We huffed, moaned, sucked, and tongued as we open-eye stared at and dry humped each other. I kept my clothes on. He kept his pants on. My tits swung side-to-side like a bell clapper out from the bottom of my crop top, grazing his mug. He supped my nipples as we udderly dryfucked. I grinded on his cock and stomach, his body my boyfriend. His finger… in my skort! tickled around the lip of my pussy’s mouth. Wet, hot, almost horny enough to fuck, but not—

 “Enough!” I pushed his stubble-shaved chest away from me. He fell back into the pillows and rolled his eyes all stern-like. I “hid” my hehe-snicker with my hand like Muttley.

“We’re getting hot,” he observed.

“I know,” and folded off of him. “That’s nothing… Do you need some water?”

After a few more restorative breaths of his blue-ball savasana, he sat up and leaned his back into my bosom. Now, he was little spoon. I rested my head on his shoulder and hugged him from behind like a photo of a couple at prom.

“Our time is up…”

“Ok :),” I said, newly energized and flushed. “This was fun. Thank you. I needed it. I’ll leave you a good review.”

He turned around to face me, then kissed my lips and cheeks a million times like a boyfriend.

“You’re addictive,” he groaned.

“I know,” and made a silly sad-clown face at him like, it’s so hard being me. Quite pleased with myself, I pointed to the envelope of cash on the desk. “That’s for you,” I said as he buttoned up his button down. He pocketed the cash. We hugged and kissed again. I wished him a nice and fruitful trip to Miami. He kissed me goodbye. “Ciao,” he winked and left.

Giddy and lovey-dovey blushing, I sped walked to the bathroom. My snout was scratched, red with man. My eyes shined dopey. I took a selfie. And then a few more to remind myself later of myself after touch. I sat my just-groped ass on the toilet, and texted my best friend and mommy as I peed: “He gone! / Very good experience !! / He held me and I cried LOL / He is also a slytherin.” My throbbing brain boil burst into a puddle. I wept and hyperventilated as I beamed and pissed, chronicling what had just happened to, for, and with me. Touch can be very shocking to my body.

I cried as I wiped, pretended to wash my hands, walked back to the bed, sipped the nearly full $9 Fiji water, turned the volume up on Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, sat at the corner of the bed, and scanned Uber Eats for a late dinner. I decided on Italian; the poetic choice. As if it couldn’t get any more poetic, I ordered chicken parmesan, a childhood favorite (so it should be a comfort), but triggering food. I won’t get into the finger behind the trigger, but I love/hate to eat it. I added tiramisu to the cart too. I have the sweetest tooth; I refuse to neglect her.

Forty-five minutes of crying, tittering, texting, sobbing, and close friends’ story posting later, I elevatored down to meet the delivery man. The elevator stopped at floor L, but the doors didn’t open. I pounded against the stainless steel and screamed, “Hello?! Hello?! Is anyone there?” I pressed “<|>,” and “L,” and “6,” and again, but nothing moved. No lit up buttons. I imagined crashing to my death. Hey, at least I got one last kiss! I called the receptionist. “I am stuck in the elevator and I need my chicken parmesan,” I said. “Can you let the delivery man leave it at the front desk?” The manager and handyman got me out in 10 minutes.

Now, I melt just a few feet away from where I fondled Giacomo. It’s deep and long, the bathtub. I’m pregnant with chicken parm! I plop my “rebirth” bath bomb in the shape of a skull into the hot water beneath the faucet, and watch it sizzle and float. It gives birth to a sinking green crystal. I cradle myself—one ear in water, one ear in air—and wrestle with how close I’ve come.