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aside then stepped under the warm water. I soaped my body and then rinsed, not bothering to wash my hair.
    I reached for the towel and began to dry myself. I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. There was a reason I was so good at what I did, and it had much to do with what was below the belt. Let’s just say I’d been blessed with the equipment to make women squirm—in a good way, that is.
    At a guess, I’d say eight inches. Ten when erect.
    Women who say size isn’t important are usually lying—if it wasn’t important, they wouldn’t be seeing me on the side or investing in industrial sized dildos.
    But it wasn’t just about that; I was young, attractive, and I made every woman I was with feel special. My dark hair and brown eyes drove women crazy, as did my lopsided grin. Flexing my muscles, I looked over my body. I took care of my body to ensure it was in the best shape it could be, so that I was in the best condition to please every one of my clients. That meant keeping myself fit, toned, and well-groomed …everywhere.
    If you’re thinking I sound like a cocky asshole, then you’re wrong. Isn’t that what they’re paying me for? So they feel like they’re the center of my world? I don’t go to bars to pick up random women and spin lies about how “special” they are just to get in their pants. I’m providing a service, and being charming is all a part of that.
    The funny thing was, Coop “The Escort” couldn’t be more different from the real me. When I was at work, I was a completely malleable person. I became the person my client wanted me to be, whether that was a cocky bastard, aggressive, or just a regular loving guy. Whatever they wanted, right? I mean , that’s why I was getting paid.

    The definition of my life - my existence - is a simple one.
    It's not that I'm the tease, not unless you were paying me to be one. The tease in my lifestyle was never quite being able to get where I wanted to be, or what I wanted for myself. I wasn't the tease. But my potential was.
    I’d do anything for the right price. Nothing was off the table. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; even I had limits. There were things I wouldn’t do ; I wouldn’t touch anything illegal or involving bodily fluids, and obvious signs of sexually transmitted diseases or illness were a no-go. I couldn’t afford to lose clients for not fulfilling their needs, but it was even more important for me to ensure my own safety and the safety of my other clients. That was where having a semi-regular client base was a good thing: I wasn’t sleeping with thousands of women, but even so, it only took one mistake to ruin your life.
    The real me? Well that’s someone not many people got to meet. The real Coop was generous, funny—and modest too—and would do anything for his friends and family. I hated feeling vulnerable, which is why it was easier to create an alter ego who was all the things I wasn’t. Letting people in was hard for me, and I wasn’t just talking about love. Even friendship I found difficult. It was much easier for me to relate to girls than to guys. Maybe something to do with being raised in an all female family? Who knows.

    I arrived at The Benson Hotel shortly after six, taking in its imposing exterior. Bellhops stood outside as people in suits made use of the valet parking, dropping their BMWs and Mercedes off at the door.
    Nearly all of my appointments were in some of the most luxurious hotel chains in the country. Hotels were even ground, and more importantly, inconspicuous. I was less likely to be discovered in a place like this than I was outside a client’s house—especially those who were married.
    I strolled through the foyer confidently, heading for the elevator. I’d been in so many posh hotels by now that nobody blinked an eye. I knew just how to blend in. To act confident, stride forward, shoulders back, head high. To look like I belonged.
    I stepped out of the elevator on the