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Yeah, I'm just a Gigolo and proud of it. We all have talents, mine just happens to be sex and pleasing women. What can I say, except I am damn good at it. It is not very often a person can turn their passion into their career but for me it just worked out that way, you might even say it was inevitable. I was always sexual, always chasing girls from as far back as I can remember.

All that being said, it just happened, no plan, no thinking about it as a future vocation, nope, stumbled upon it by accident. I never pursued it, even to this day I do not advertise, merely word of mouth from satisfied customers wanting to share with their friends. Now I admit I get paid plenty and garner a lot of perks the normal person could never fathom, but being a kind man, I will also do some work pro-bono, so to speak. Not every woman can afford my services and occasionally I will entertain one of the lonely not so rich clients and if I can make their week, who am I to disappoint.

I learned at a young age to understand the needs of the fairer sex, studying them, realizing every beautiful sensual creature is different, yet the same. All they want is to feel desired, that they are beautiful sexual animals that even when denying their urges and fantasies, all it would take is pushing the right buttons.

Some are submissive, some are dominant, some just want to feel young again, some want to feel wanton, some want a secret side. The key is to watch, listen and learn without asking. Show them that they are worth the effort to learn and impress, surprising them. Chivalry is not a lost art, and most women would turn back the clock to destroy the women's lib movement if truth be known. That is where I come in, replacing the boring men in their lives, not taking them for granted.

Now I am your standard image of a gigolo, I am in my thirties; I am 6'5"; I work out and have the proverbial six-pack. It started just before my 20th birthday, August 1997; I had already been working numerous typical male jobs when I met her. She was in her mid-forties, a voluptuous hair salon blond type. Not wanting to be who she really was, looking for that something extra to bring her back to life. I was out for Friday night drinks, cruising the bars looking for that young naïve notch, the one you take home, fuck and hopefully never see again. I know, I can read your mind, typical male chauvinist, but hey we were all young once, we all played the gender role games we were assigned, I am just upfront and honest about it.

 

She was rich, bored and needing to feel that spark, to feel the undeniable draw of lust, being the slut wife, if for no other reason than to get back at that bastard of a husband who spent too much time at work, too much time chasing his young secretary instead of trying to satisfy the so called one he loved at home. It was slow for a weekend night, not much happening and my hard phallus was definitely feeling the pent up frustrations of the week, even jerking off could not replace the need building inside me. She smiled, offered me a drink and feigning interest in this mature women seemed like a fun new venture for someone my age.

It was not long before the booze hit her, and I took the opportunity to dance with her, sliding my hands over the curves of a woman that had been used, and loved to play. She knew what she wanted, and I was along for the ride. Her full tits pressed against my chest, her pelvis grinding against mine as she laid her head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair with one hand, massaging her ass with the other. Tilting her head back, I gently bit her lip, working my tongue into her waiting eager mouth. When the song was over, we went back to the table in the corner where she sat on my lap, kissing my neck, guiding my hands to her heaving breasts, her nipples now trying to bust through the lace demi cut bra. This woman was dressed to the nines; money was definitely no object when it came to her pretty things.

The more we kissed, the more we groped, her hands now rubbing my erect member through my slacks, leaving an obvious wet spot. My hand slowly crept under her skirt, exploring her stockings, and French cut panties, already wet and thick pussy lips bulging through the thin material. I allowed two fingers to sneak under, parting her lubricated slit, opening up the petal like lips. She let a deep moan into my mouth and her cunt involuntarily convulsed with a grip on those two fingers unlike any young girl I had been with previously. I felt as if I could please any woman at the one point in time. She came instantly, the slutty rich whore. As soon as she calmed down, she asked, well maybe ordered me to come with her, that she had a room around the corner.

Once in the room, she made it clear what the rules were: I was there to please her, and she would make sure I was well looked after. I was shocked to say the least, offended and ready to leave when I thought to myself, 'Girls are always making money off sex, and not just hookers.' Hell dates are not cheap, and we guys were always supposed to pay back then, long before the days of going Dutch on dates.

I figured try it once, you know the old saying, in for a penny, in for a dollar.

She told me to get undressed slowly, and so in my clumsy Chippendale impression I took off my shirt, then unbuckled my belt, slacks and let them fall as she sat in the large chair watching.