I am American, so if you're British and in any way offended or disconcerted by something in the dialogue that doesn't quite fit, please let me know so I can fix it. I've done my best. Thank you and enjoy! Criticism is always welcome.

The first customer of the night was gruff man with piercing green eyes and a face that looked like it had been pummeled numerous times throughout his lifetime. He wasn't ugly. He wasn't pretty, either. The thing that repelled me the most was the stale taste of car oil on his neck that he had failed to wash off after work.

"Where are you from?" he asked, as I leaned closer and slipped my hand beneath his trousers.

"Cumbria."

"A country lad, eh? I can tell. I come from Scotland myself."

Idiot. I've lived in London my entire life.

I bit down on his neck, my brow furrowing from the taste, and the next thing I knew he was moaning like he was the whore. "Lord...I'm gonna have to buy you out for the night if you keep strokin' me like that."

I unclenched my jaw to spit out the usual fiction. "I'm afraid someone has already scheduled that slot."

"Ah, fuck. Tomorrow evening, then?"

"I'm booked all week."

He swore under his breath at the same time that the bell rang, indicating that our hour was up. Before he could pull out another stack of cash and beg me to continue, I extracted myself from him and moved past the red curtains into the center of the club.

I was a house escort at Miss Ginny's, the only all-male strip club in the city of Westminster. They disguise the illegal activities of workers like me by calling us entertainers, but my work often goes far beyond the dancing and stripping acts of the typical employee. In professional terms there is no such thing as a house escort; there is either a house dancer, who works as an entertainer at a specific club, or an escort, who works as a prostitute for an agency that schedules appointments at various locations and allows the escort to be more selective about their customers than, say, the average streetwalker.

I have no interest in working for an agency that would have me conduct my business over the phone and internet as such, but otherwise my job description is very alike to that of an escort. Add the nonsexual entertaining I do at Miss Ginny's, and it would seem most logical to consider me a house escort.

After my encounter with the stale-tasting Scotsman, I moved toward the bar, observing the clientele as they passed. Like a case of particularly annoying acne, Anderson, the head bartender, popped up the moment I sat down and blathered, "Don't tell me you just turned down another customer."

"I wouldn't call it turning them down. I simply tell them I'm already scheduled."

"Sherlock."

"If you keep barking my name like that, they're going to figure out I'm giving a fake one."

"Charlie, then."

"No. I'm Sherman tonight," I replied, and he was too stupid to figure out I was being sarcastic.

"Sherman?"

"Stop scolding me, Anderson. You could be doing something useful, like washing dishes."

The wine glass in his hand suddenly imploded into several pieces, and he dropped it in the trash without breaking his glare. "Says the whore who selects his customers instead of the other way around. I cannot fathom that you haven't been fired yet."

"House escort. It's because I'm too good. The clients I do select always come back and ask for me again."

"And the nights you don't find anyone to your liking - which is most of them - you sit around with that irritating smirk on your face and purposely cause me problems-"

"Anderson. Wasn't it you who started this conversation?" I interrupted as he wiped the glass remnants off the counter. He glanced up with the most resolute notion of murder in his eyes that I had ever seen, and more importantly, shut up. I engaged myself in watching the door.

Within a minute I recognized an interesting challenge. "I've just picked my client."

"Who?"

"Early twenties, short hair, practical dress, a bit short but it's adorable," I said, gesturing toward the front at the man who had just walked in. I hated that I had to describe the physical characteristics for anyone to understand, not the interesting things, not the fact that he was a writer and that two tragedies had befallen him in one day and that for those reasons he was reconsidering a relative's proposition for him to go back to school and study in another field, but which one?

"Him? He doesn't even look like he's meant to be here."

"Exactly. He won't be satisfied with anyone else."

"Oh, so you're using this opportunity to be vain."

"I'm not being vain, you imbecile, I'm being observant. He'll be back out the door in moments if I don't intervene."

I rose and started toward him, during which time Anderson managed to disclose my real name to every person sitting on that side of the bar. I restrained the urge to tell him to shut up, only because it would be unbecoming of a successful house escort.

I managed to catch the writer by the arm just as he was turning to leave. He looked at me with bewilderment. "Sorry, I've made a mistake."

"I know. Stay and chat for a moment. I'll make it worth your while."

"You know?"

"Well, yes. You look a bit out of place."

"I am. I need to get home."

"If that was true you wouldn't have walked in here in the first place. You thought this was a straight club. If you go home now you're going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself, but instead I offer you the opportunity to sit down with me and chat. I won't come on to you if you don't want me to. Promise."

His expression then was crossed between discontent and astonishment, but it was the good sort of astonishment, the sort that I had been aiming for. Instead of being alarmed, he was intrigued. Which proved my presumption correct.

I watched him scrutinize my skin-tight slacks and sequined black vest and decide against all of his better judgement to trust me. "Alright then, get on with it," he said, and I led him into a small alcove like the one I had occupied earlier in the night, pulling the curtains closed behind us.

He was alarmed, as I had expected, by the intimacy of the chamber. When I placed my hands on his shoulders to coax him into the seat, a look of caution appeared almost instantaneously in his eyes, and I recognized the need to take advantage of the subtleties of seduction in every possible aspect of the night's meeting if I wished to achieve my goal. He was smarter, not to mention straighter, than most, but young. Still vulnerable.

"What's your name?" he asked as I seated myself across the semicircle, leaning one elbow on the ledge above the booth. Courteous. He obviously hadn't adapted to the fact that he was in a strip club, not that I minded. It was usually me who asked for names, often not receiving any inquiry back, to give off the impression that I cared.

"Dimitri. Yours?"

"John." He glanced quickly around the alcove. There was a clear coffee table in the center, small enough not to be obtrusive but large enough to support the weight of two bodies. The seat surrounding it was made of dark red velvet, and although there weren't any speakers past the curtains, evocative music pumped in from the heart of the club, clearly adding to his discomfort. "Won't you get in trouble for, er, not...stripping, or shagging, or whatever it is you do?"

I could not help but smile. "I work on my own terms. If I can please you by talking to you, I will have fulfilled my purpose."

"Right. And what is it, exactly, that you want to talk about?"

"You're distressed. Tell me what happened today."

"We've just met. I hardly think-" John started. Then he appeared to have realized that he was talking to someone who was paid to make people feel loved, who learned new ways of pretending to care every night, who he thought he would never see again in his lifetime. "In short, I was sacked and dumped."

The two tragedies. There was no need to act surprised, as I normally would. This client was different. This client would catch on to my unusual clairvoyance and that's what would keep him hooked; not the sex or even the outward conversation, but the riddle beneath it all. That is, if my supposition continued to prove correct. "Both today?"

"Unfortunately. She started shouting at me before she even knew about it, and I was stressed, so I shouted back. Dug my own grave, I suppose. She never did find out about my unemployment before she ended us."

"That's cruel."

"I don't understand women. Adrienne, for example, is compassionate half the time and unreasonably irascible the other half. There's no in-between. Or there wasn't, anyway."

"It's a common pattern. I don't understand women, either. So I gave up trying," I said, although I had figured out the logic behind women a long time ago. First, if it's not their idea, it's not right. Second, - and this is critical - if they're menstruating, they will demonstrate the opposite of both courtesy and reason in every situation.

"I got sacked because I accidentally burned down my office, and half the department with it," he continued. I was careful not to glance at the burn marks at the end of his tie or the frazzled hair at the base of his neck, but again I reacted casually.

"What happened, were you typing too fast?"

When he got the joke, he laughed. It was a sad, hopeless laugh which ended in a voice close to tears. "No, no, I just left a stack of papers beside my electric kettle, that's all."

"You must have been in a great hurry. You don't seem like the irresponsible type of man."

"I was. I had a deadline with only a couple minutes left to fax an article. I just wasn't thinking."

"The imbeciles running the Guardian allow you to keep a water boiler in your office but don't provide you with a fax machine?"

"Funny, isn't it? I brought in the kettle so I could make tea and-" He stopped and looked me straight in the eyes, his tone changing entirely. "The Guardian, I never said anything about the Guardian."

"No," I responded, smiling. "You didn't."

"Do you have an earpiece in feeding you information about me?"

I displayed each of my empty ears in turn to him.

"How, then?"

"The Guardian is the only newspaper company in London which has had a fire in the past twelve hours."

He seemed satisfied with the answer. I was fascinated by his diligence in caution and quick recognition, so unlike the passive cynicism of the average person. I had been right to choose him.

"I'm glad you weren't harmed. I wouldn't have had the honor of meeting you tonight," I continued.

"There's no need to flatter me."

"I'm not flattering. Do you know how rare it is for a person of quality to stumble in here?"

"You don't seem fond of your job." He had directed the subject of conversation toward me; he was genuinely interested. The first essential milestone was breached. "Why are you a stripper? If you don't mind me asking."

"It's easy, profitable, and fun to manipulate people. I learn so much about human behavior," I responded, choosing to leave out the essential reason that the one known as Miss Ginny had given me a home when I couldn't stand my own anymore. It wasn't important in this context.

"Is that what you're doing right now, manipulating me?"

"Have you in any way acted against your own free will since coming here?"

He considered it. "Besides staying, no."

"There's your answer."

"That's rather impressive, though. I'm not even sure why I'm still here."

"I do," I said, grasping the opportunity with relish. Even this man, this rational man named John who had entered the club by pure mistake, was so easy to delude. He looked at me in puzzlement, so I left the question hanging unanswered on his lips and produced another one. "Was Adrienne a good lover?"

He colored instantly. "I don't think I should talk about her in that way."

"There's no need for moral modesty, especially here. I promise you complete confidentiality regarding this exchange."

"Why are you asking?"

"She must have been, with the compassionate side you spoke of. Does civil compassion equate to passionate intimacy? I wish to learn."

He was reluctant, but fell into the temptation as I knew he would, his eyes suddenly glued to the table. "She was quite passionate, honestly, but sometimes she seemed, sort of, naive toward my own needs. She didn't mean it, of course. But when she was having a brilliant time, I think in her mind it was automatically reciprocated."

"Sometimes it's not. Different people have different needs, different pleasures."

"Of course. And she was wonderful, I'll give her that justice, but for me there was always that underlying notion that she didn't care, that she didn't really see me until afterward." He sighed. "Anyway, it's probably just my imagination."

"I disagree. This corresponds with the other behaviors you've mentioned. She doesn't deserve you."

"I ha-"

"She doesn't deserve to have such control over the heart of someone she fails to appreciate at full value. No one does." In the distraction of the moment I rose and moved to his side of the table. My knees slipped between his as I seated myself, with enough space between the seat and the table so that they were hardly touching. He tried to say something, but I didn't allow it. "Let me ask you something, John. You say Adrienne was wonderful in bed, but naive. Have you ever imagined sharing a bed with someone who carries that same level of passion and attraction, paired with the proclivity to respond to your every need?"

"Of course I've imaginedit."

"But have you imagined that it could actually happen? Have you imagined that a real person, not a figure in a dream, but a real person walking on this earth could attend to you that way?"

He looked me in the eyes, and his next statement came out in a very weak voice. "I know what you're implying. It's not going to work."

"You can't prove that I'm implying anything, John. Just imagine." My hand rose to his jaw and applied a gentle touch, which he immediately pulled away with his own hand, but only by a few inches clearance. I didn't let it hinder me. "Imagine a woman, if you'd like. It doesn't matter either way. Someone exists who will make you the center of attention. Someone exists who will look at you and make sure you know that they see you, and that they can perceive your emotions and all your desires and will kick their own to the wayside just to make sure that you. Feel. Magnificent."

I was looking at him in just that way, and he knew, and he hadn't the will to turn away from it.

"Stop this," he muttered, as I leaned past and pressed my lips to his neck, but he didn't move. I pushed through his grip and held the top of his jaw, letting my nails dig in, distracting him so that he didn't react when I undid his trousers with my other hand. "Stop this, I'm not even-"

"Gay?" I finished, slipping my fingers around his hardening cock. I pulled back and smiled at him. "You don't have to be." I leaned forward and kissed him with force enough to push him back against his seat without allowing him a chance to do anything about it. In a moment I was straddling him.

He was giving in, but it wasn't enough, not for a client like this. He needed something more, something memorable that would tie him to me in such a way that he would willingly come back.

"Could I finish this where you'll feel more comfortable?"

"You mean...home?" he breathed. I could tell that he was in the midst of an internal battle against himself, and losing it. I nodded, running my fingers upward along the center of his shirt beneath his tie. "Right, yes. It's a short walk, but do you have something to cover yourself up with?"

"Of course. We'll go out the back way." I pulled away from him gradually, touching him every step of the way, observing and affecting. He tucked himself back into his pants and adjusted to where the slight bulge wasn't noticeable before following me out. I walked past the bar, ignoring the disgusting sneer on Anderson's face, and grabbed my coat from the back room before exiting.

John walked ahead of me, but with some satisfaction I predicted his steps for most of the way. He would have a place within reasonable walking distance of the Guardian Media Group in King's Cross. Probably a flat, affordable, a typical single-bedroom home for someone just out of university. It would be located in a community both peaceful enough and adequately centered in society to suit the needs of an informative writer. He had natural soils on his clothes from visiting a nearby park often. Within a few turns I perceived the most valid option to be Richmond Crescent, nestled just between both Barnard Park and the Thornhill Rose Garden, about fifteen minutes walking distance from his workplace and about five minutes from mine.

He pulled his keys out of his pocket as we rounded the corner of Richmond, arriving finally at a tall brick building with a pleasant little trellis shading the door. We walked to his room on ground level in a hurry; no doubt he was worried to be seen with me at this hour. I shed my coat and vest the moment we entered and left them hanging over a chair. He left the lights off. When we came before his bed, he seemed unsure of how to handle himself, so I walked up to him and pulled his tie loose. It was a nice tie; blue silk, meant to impress, but instead he had managed to give quite the opposite impression today. He couldn't have been working there long. I laid the tie down on his side table before pulling open the buttons of his shirt.

I felt the urge to kiss him and it was utterly foreign. Generally I tried to keep as far away from my clients' mouths as possible, but they were usually embittered with alcohol. John's mouth was nothing but innocence, reticence, and the underlying citrus of Earl Grey.

"I didn't think this through," he muttered as I peeled off his jacket and tossed it aside. "I don't think I can...you know, um." He was at a loss for words that sounded tasteful enough to be said out loud. I decided I would desensitize him.

"You don't have to fuck me. There are plenty of things one can do with a man's todge and bollocks without going 'round the arse."

He was startled into silence. I had to restrain myself from laughing as I let his shirt fall to the floor and dropped to my knees. His pants were thin enough for me to press my tongue against the front of and hear the effects. I gripped his thighs and pushed him against the side of the bed, feeling upward to his hips and back, shimmying pants and boxers down to his knees.

"Sit down and relax," I told him, knowing he was lost, and he complied. I coaxed him the rest of the way out of his garments, in no hurry, learning and appreciating the contours of his knees and calves. He was watching me with an expression alike to both wonderment and confusion; he had never been touched this way before, never been treated like every part of his body was a sacred thing, not by a woman or anyone else. Most of the people I dealt with would have wanted me to get on with it and pleasure them through purely sexual means. John had no objections, and it was a nice change. It reminded me of how strongly I preferred connotations over the concrete aspects of acts and words and situations themselves. Facts were simple. There was so much hiding behind the facts, unseeable to those who weren't looking or didn't care. An unending trail of knowledge that no one seemed to know how to navigate.

I glanced up at him, tempted to say something but deciding it was better just to look, and thus reminding him that I saw him as a person and not just a body. There was lust in his eyes but it was secondary. He was fascinated. He was lost in a moment outside of reality and for once, I couldn't see inside his mind. The trail was blocked.

I didn't understand. I didn't understand and it was infuriating but I didn't have the time to figure it out, so I did the thing I knew how to do indisputably, habitually. I took him in my mouth and then he lost control, gripping the sheets and letting out soft, incoherent moans every minute or so.

When he came I spit it out on the sheets beside him, only because I knew he wasn't the type to mind. A lot of horny clubgoers would either be offended or suddenly find it necessary to assert their authority, which wasn't often pleasant for me.

I crawled halfway onto his lap, halfway sitting on the bed beside him, waiting patiently for a reaction. He looked over and glanced once at my lips, which was enough for me to deduce that he was hesitant to kiss a mouthful of his own cum. I breached the gap myself and then the hesitance was gone. He kissed me with the appreciation reserved for a romantic lover, as he was still lost in that moment outside of reality, and it struck some part of my heart in a way that I would never forget.

We parted, and he glanced down at the bunched fabric at my groin, and said, "Anything I can do about that?" The tone was then purely professional.

"Don't worry about me. I'll walk it off. If you don't mind."

He nodded. I stood, grabbed my coat from the other side of the room, and left the flat in a practiced manner of covertness. After covering the perimeter of the Barnard Park basketball courts, I was calm, but still perplexed. I had the remainder of the night to investigate and find a way through the roadblock, if even it was still there. Otherwise I would have to wait until he called for me again.

He said nothing when I returned; his back was turned to the front door. I slipped into bed beside him and kept my arms folded against his back in gentle caress.

"How much for your services?" he asked.

"Don't be silly. First-time customers get a free night if they promise to come again." I spontaneously invented this policy.

"How much?" he repeated, without hesitation. I frowned.

Reality had returned, for both of us. He was confused, likely disturbed by his own actions. I had gotten my hopes too high, or my head too big, or both.

"Thirty pounds."

He seemed to have already had his wallet prepared, and he handed me the bills over his shoulder. It gave me no sense of fulfillment.

I laid there for at least fifteen minutes with the money poised between my fingers, lost in thought. Then he said, "You should probably go."

Before I left I made one last mental scope of the house, learning what I could within the space of a few seconds. He had a sister, a supportive one but somewhat of a hypocrite in that she wasn't very successful herself. She was more than likely the relative he had visited earlier today and gotten advice from, leaving him with two pamphlets: one for St. Bartholomew's Hospital and one for the British Army.

He kept the place nice for a man of his age, but wasn't the most creative chef for himself. He'd had a few university friends over for a visit recently, probably for the last time. He wanted to adopt a dog but was too busy for it.

In all, John Watson was a lonely man with a good heart, caught in the newfound and unfortunate conundrum of adulthood. Tonight was a one-time mistake that he would likely not fall into again.