What Friends Do

He introduced me to other celebrities, making no bones about saying I was a principal dancer at the Washington Ballet—and I was surprised at how many people this seemed to impress—and he was continually whispering to me who this or that was and little vignettes of his working relations and of the triumphs and travails of putting together his fall fashion collection. In public, he treated me like a friend and date on the same level as he was and with as much reason to be there as he had. He had treated me with respect on the sofa, but at no time had there been a misunderstanding of our respective positions—he on top and me on bottom—or that I was there to serve his pleasure and that a mere finger touch on my inner thigh was to be responded to by my opening my legs to his cock.

Whenever he got the chance, he’d point out to others that the tux I was wearing was also from the fall collection, and he’d fish for and always received compliments on how well I looked in it. It was as if we were a standing couple, not that we’d only met that afternoon and that I was mostly here to give him sexual release at a price—a full-service escort; a male prostitute.

By the time we got back to the apartment, I’d forgotten that I wasn’t Cinderella and that Manon wasn’t Prince Charming. I was quickly brought back down to earth on that score, though.

“Shall we cap the evening with a drink?” he asked when we entered the top level of the penthouse apartment. “And this time I think you need champagne, not just sparkling water. You’ll exercise it off. You did very well tonight.”