When I came back the next morning, Miss Ginny was already there, waiting to call me into his office the moment I walked through the door. He usually left an hour or so past midnight and returned late in the evening, because his check-ins only required a few hours' work and then a bit of activity monitoring around the club. He had accountants to file through the really boring paperwork before passing it on to him.

It was four in the morning, so he must have stayed late. He was irritated. I could see it by the creases on his forehead; he hadn't expected to wait so long for me, but he wouldn't show it in his words. Admittedly, I had stayed with John while he was asleep longer than necessary. He gave me a lot to think about.

Miss Ginny gestured for me to sit down in front of his desk, so I did, and he continued playing virtual Solitaire while he spoke in the abstracted front that he put up anytime he had something authoritarian to say. "That cute little alcoholic keep you up long? Usually they pass out after thirty minutes."

"He's not an alcoholic. He had a bad day. And he wasn't drunk enough to faint; he just looked it because his body's not used to the alcohol."

He glanced over at me from his computer screen with a look that served to remind me that he didn't appreciate my snappy attitude when giving facts. Nobody did. Nobody except John. I almost apologized, but this time I didn't. I just made a mental note to keep it out of the rest of the conversation.

"I don't like to be a downer; obviously you enjoyed your time with him, but...do you remember the first principal of our mission statement?"

I did. I had been required to sign it when I first got hired, and it was hanging right behind me on the door to his office, and several other copies were placed throughout my room as well as the rest of the employees only section of the club. "Customer satisfaction. Whatever it takes."

"And at what time do you consider your customer satisfied?"

"When they dismiss you or fall asleep."

"Now, the second principal?"

"Efficiency."

"Expand."

"Get in, get out. Concentrate the customer satisfaction section into as short a time as possible so you can get back to the club and satisfy another. Personal feelings shall never be involved; your body is as much a tool for profit as a cash register, so tiredness is not an excuse. It can and will be controlled, like all the other emotions."

He turned to me and smiled. "I almost like your definition better than what's written. Too bad some people would get offended. That's why I like you, Sherlock. You understand this profession better than anyone else."

I simply nodded. I was in no mood to have a conversation with him, especially while he was scolding me, since that's exactly what this was. He wouldn't mention it explicitly. He just gave friendly reminders with the underlying message: Do it right next time or you're fired.

"Have a nice rest, darling. That is, if you need haven't already rested."

I didn't bother shutting the door nicely when I left. It wouldn't matter to him in another day. His mind was more trained to remember his employees' relations with their customers than their relations with him. His mind was consistently set on money, and everyone knew I was the most profitable employee he had. He would not fire me if I displeased him. He would find some other way to make my life miserable.

Which, naturally, made me want to conduct a test to see what exactly my limits were and what he would do in response to my breaking them.

The next time I took a walk around the city, my first stop was the local coffee shop. There was no line but the barista seemed in a hurry, and didn't look up when he asked me what I wanted.

"Black, two sugars."

Then he looked up, halting his writing mid-phrase, and I smiled genially.

"You knew I'd be here, didn't you?"

"The smell was all over your clothes last time."

"And that I'm getting off in precisely two minutes?"

"When I walked in here I thought that might be the case. Thank you for confirming. Now you have no excuse not to sit down with me and have a coffee."

"Well, I could say that I don't want to."

"But you won't. It's a good deal; you don't even have to pay me when we're only chatting."

He watched me for a moment, smiling, and then said, "Have a seat. I'll bring you your coffee."

I sat at a small circular table in the corner of the shop and watched out the window for potential threats, which, in this case, were perfectly welcome; though it was unlikely that anyone would recognize me here, even if they passed by. People were too caught up in their own petty little worlds to notice things. My street clothes also helped in the case of blending in, but I had done that more for John's sake than mine.

He joined me two minutes after I'd been at the counter, apron doffed and one cup of black coffee in hand which he pushed in front of me.

"Business going well?"

"Don't bother asking me that question here," he began, in a low voice, and then piped up. "Excellent. It's really busy in the mornings."

"I wouldn't worry about being too discreet. Your manager's not here and your coworkers clearly share your opinion. I take it this is a temporary job, anyway. You're better than this."

He glanced down with a smile, signalling confirmation, and probably appreciation that I had noticed. Nevertheless, the conversation from that point on took up a quiet tone. "I can't do much with a degree in journalism after I've been sacked from one of the best media groups in the country."

"What are your plans?"

"Go back to school and study something a little more useful. Once I scrounge up the money, that is."

"Your visits with me haven't been too taxing, have they?"

He shook his head no - of course not; they were worthwhile stress relief, whether he wanted to admit it or not - and then looked up skeptically. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"I wanted to enjoy my time off. I was also wondering how I did." I cocked an eyebrow, smiling. "So that next time I can improve upon it."

He seemed to be getting used to the idea of homosexual intercourse, as his only sign of discomfort was a short laugh. "To be honest I can't remember the details," he said, occupying himself with smoothing his fingertip across a napkin in meaningless patterns, as if that would help him put everything together. "I remember that you treated me much differently than she did. Than anyone did, for that matter. Which was your goal, right?"

"Did you feel important? Loved?"

His eyes met mine and seemed to recognize something in them, a reminder of the way I'd looked beneath him, readily returning his gaze the entire time and accepting every movement without a struggle. "Yes," he muttered, turning away. "Like you weren't just..."

I didn't finish the sentence for him. No need to remind him of that. "Then my goal was achieved."

He paused, and then out tumbled an unsorted string of words in flustered intervals. "Look, I don't know what hidden, unwarranted section of my mind you've managed to tap into through all of this, but I don't think I want you to continue with it."

"What section are you talking about?" I asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting it in his words.

"The section that would have me, first: hiring a prostitute, and second: hiring a male one."

There was his order of priorities. It was more offensive to him to be consorting with a prostitute than with another man, as I suspected, which validated my first course of action. I needed to portray myself as something more than that, and I was already taking a step by meeting him here.

"I'm not an ordinary prostitute. I think you know that already. You're the only one who knows that, in fact."

"But you are a prostitute."

"I'm a house escort."

"Is there a difference?"

"House implying that I work at a single establishment, escort meaning I select which clients I accept."

"You're a prostitute either way."

"If you'd like to consider it that," I said, smiling as if it meant something when all it meant was that I was willing to comply with whatever he wanted, as long as he wasn't forcing me away. "If you haven't got plans today, I can enlighten you on a few of those health benefits I mentioned."

"Enlighten me now."

"In public? Well I'd be glad to, but I thought you were more modest than that."

He sighed, but I knew he found it amusing. "No, I mean, verbally."

I leaned forward on my elbows, counting each factor off on my fingers. "The obvious one, stress relief, better blood pressure. Boosts in immunity. Improved heart health. Easier bonding and trust-building. Decreased risk of prostate cancer. Better sleep. It's a natural painkiller, loads you up with endorphins. Also a very efficient workout."

"All that's a bit hard to ignore, isn't it?"

"Everyone has a guilty habit, John. Chances are it's an unhealthy one. You don't drink, you don't smoke. You don't even watch porn."

He made a gesture as if to tell me to keep my voice down, as if just the words themselves were offensive even though I was using them to shed a positive light on him. So I lowered my voice.

"I know you don't want to admit it, but you find me attractive. Charming. Clever. Skilled. Otherwise we wouldn't be here today. So why pass up the opportunity?"

"It's not necessary."

"If people lived only on what was necessary, the world would be a very dull place."

He glanced around the room as if that would help him create a better perspective. It might have, if he noticed the pack of cigarettes in the teenage girl's back pocket and the fragrance of marijuana permeating the area around a table of hippies and the canteen of vodka one man was emptying into his coffee and the conversation another man was having with his mistress on the phone while staring scornfully at the wedding band on his finger. Probably all he noticed was the cute dog leashed up outside, which presently started barking at him.

Finally he glanced down at my coffee. "You finished?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Let's get out of here before I change my mind."

He walked quickly and took off his jacket slowly when he arrived. Still nervous. Probably didn't even know what he expected to happen this time around. I decided for him.

"First things first," I said, approaching him while his back was turned. Once his jacket was successfully disconnected from his body, he spun around and promptly stumbled back against the back of the living chair just behind him. I had my hands resting on the top, on either side of his hips, and my face inches away. "I want you to feel comfortable around me."

As I brought one hand up toward his face he drew a sharp intake of air leftover from his earlier surprise. I held his jaw like I'd tried to the very first time I met him and he accepted it this time, but stayed tense. My fingers trailed to his chin and tilted it upward. I was leaning forward slowly, deliberately, and our lips met and I allowed him to take the lead, which made it sweet and sedate, and I felt him relaxing as I clasped my arms around his waist. He slid one hand up to my shoulder. I moved closer and felt my hips press against his and then he turned his head, breaking the kiss off short.

I waited, and it seemed like he wanted to say something. He didn't. After a few seconds he looked back up at me with decision in his eyes and kissed me again, and this time it was him who asked for more, his lips that unsealed themselves against mine and invited me in, his arms snaking around my neck and pulling me so close that I could feel his heart beating against my chest, and I pushed him up into a sitting position on the seat back and accepted his invitation wholeheartedly. I couldn't help but notice that now that he wanted it, he was a damn good kisser. He knew exactly how much to give and accept, how much to put into it so that we were perfectly in tune with each other, and it made everything feel right.

Without breaking away, I slipped my hands under his thighs and twisted around, picturing my way toward his bed, because uniting with John didn't hinder my senses but made everything clearer, made everything make sense even when it didn't, made my mind work impossibly faster to decipher and carry out whatever actions would please him the most. Then his back hit the mattress and I was on top of him and kissing him while I unbuttoned his shirt, which I noticed was a collared flannel.

"We match," I muttered, smiling.

"They told me casual-professional. Everyone else comes to work looking like they just got out of school for the day."

He was talking, smiling back, becoming more natural. I took note of everything. I noted the way he shivered when my lips trailed down to his collarbone and sucked, the provocative tilt of his head back into the pillow when I freed him from his pants and ran my fingers up his length. It was incessantly arousing and yet he wasn't trying at all, just reacting. I was used to being the cause of these reactions, but none had ever made me feel so proud, so possessive. I wanted this man to be mine.

I rolled onto my side and observed him from beside him, making subtle switches in pace and grip to see where his chest heaved and his hands clenched into fists and his breath hitched in his throat. His eyes were closed and I could only guess what he was imagining. No deductions. They wouldn't work. I had to feel to find out who he was, and it was a patient task that I, for once, was willing to undertake.

His hand instinctively found my unoccupied wrist and as my gaze stayed on his face and the gorgeous expressions crossing over it I felt him spilling hot over my hand and it took me a moment to recognize that through his sighs he was moaning, "Dimitr...Dimi...tr..."

He was catching his breath when I noticed that I could hardly breathe. He turned his head and met my eyes and I felt like I was paralyzed.

I forced myself through the oppression and rolled out of bed to retrieve a towel, using the moment I was facing away from him to defragment my thoughts. My name, not my real name, but it didn't matter, he was imagining me.

Nothing unusual about that, I told myself. All my regulars favored me in such a particular way, except for that one last week who was grunting 'Percy' while he had his prick in me. But no, nothing unusual, nothing special. Just another successful sale.

I had him cleaned off in moments and then lay down beside him again. He seemed happy. Suddenly he turned to me and said, "Everything you do feels unworldly. Is every prostitute psychic? That was the best handjob I've ever had. You're better for me than me."

I couldn't help but feel flattered. Flattered, nothing more. "Not every one. The others just practice a lot."

He sighed and turned his eyes back toward the ceiling before closing them. "Shame I have to pay for you. I think I'd rather keep you all day to give me hourly handjobs." I watched him after this statement and it took me a moment to realize I was witnessing a very rare thing. This wasn't the way John acted toward the general public, even to me in the past; open, witty, expressive, even affectionate. This was the way he acted around his girlfriends.

I was struck by an idea the practical part of me told me to ignore, which another part of me - I wasn't sure which part - ignored in turn. "I'll give you a base charge. One consistent fee for any length of time and any request you can think of."

"How much?"

"Seventy. Per visit."

He considered it with furrowed brows and for a moment I thought that I'd made the price too high to fit into his current situation, even though it could be a stupendous deal if he took advantage of it. Then he glanced sideways across the room as if he had remembered something, and said, "That sounds doable. You're staying, then." A hidden stash, a savings account, some sort of piggy bank. I remembered the direction of his glance for later inspection, if I was given the chance.

"You don't have anything to take care of?"

"Nothing imminent."

I crawled closer and pressed my lips to his neck, but then his hand pressed gently back against my chest. "Just- wait. I need..." He took a long breath, searching for words to express himself, and came up dry. "I need you to wait a moment."

"Still nervous?"

"Not nervous. Um."

"A little overwhelmed?"

"Yes. All the, you know...you're, well, male."

"Understandable," I assured him before pulling back to where I was. He seemed surprised to see me smiling. Not like I provided intimacy to people every day, and it become exceedingly boring. I appreciated the change, and I appreciated still how different he was from all the rest.

He had nothing else to say, so I asked him questions about himself, things I already knew but hadn't confirmed. I was right on all accounts. After a time I ran out of things to confirm and told him jokes I'd picked up a lifetime of eavesdropping. He laughed with his eyes and told me they were moronic, which they were, which made them funny nonetheless. When I ran out of foolish jokes I gave him riddles. He solved all but one. I was impressed.

The false answer he gave to the one he couldn't solve was, "Kiss me."

Or maybe he could solve it after all.