Best Job in the World

Oh, god, I hope so, Philip thought. Chucky had pulled two long, red silk scarves from somewhere, and he was using them to dance in place with. Philip’s eyes followed the slide of the scarves as Chucky moved them provocatively around and across his smooth, lightly tanned torso.

When Chucky reached down and jerked off his breakaway pants with one swift movement, Philip gasped, and a hand involuntarily went to his basket, which was already tenting out.

“Do you like me?” Chucky asked in a low, melodic voice. “Do you think I make a good story?”

All Philip could muster in reply was a low, guttural sound rising up from his gorge. His eyes were popping out at just how exotic—and suggestive—were Chucky’s undulating movements to the beat of the boom box music. And he was reminded yet again how much better this was in real life than just reading fantasies about it and looking at photographs depicting it in the magazines he published. He sometimes got so bogged down in the tiring, dull business end of selling sex that he forgot what got him into this business.

He reached over and punched the intercom button and managed to croak. “Hold all of my calls for now, Vicky.”

“Sure thing, Mr. M.,” the intercom chirped back. Vicky had worked here a long time, and Vicky was no dummy. The rags in Metcalf’s empire featured photos as well as written stories, and the auditions for a lot of those were conducted right here in Philip’s office.