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“Um, I take it that’s not your real name,” I asked, attempting to break the ice. I had no clue about the social etiquette for conversing with your sex worker before you got down to business.
Kitten paused in his tracks, stopping mere inches from where I sat awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. At first, I mistook his hesitation for confusion, evidenced by the faint furrow forming between his brows—as much of an expression as he could muster given his clearly liberal use of botox. But then, I recognized it: “the look.” The one that happened whenever people realized they were in the presence of the Colton Ray, one of the most hyped musicians of the moment.
I knew my voice stood out as one of the most unique in the business, a truly distinctive sound that was instantly recognizable. A blend of husky baritones and soaring high notes, I possessed an enviable range that lent a haunting beauty to my performances, or so I’d been told countless times by now. If David Draiman and Lewis Capaldi’s vocal chords had a love child, it would be me. Paired with my remarkably small stature, ostentatious fashion sense, and Asian heritage, it was almost impossible to fly under the radar anymore.
Anticipating Kitten’s reaction, I braced myself. Turns out I hated the trappings of fame, and truth be told, I couldn’t decide which fan response was more grating: the incessant screams and adoration, or the ones who tried to play it cool, feigning indifference because they wanted something from me.
To my surprise, Kitten did neither. Instead, he departed from the usual fanfare with a refreshingly straightforward approach.
“Well, well, well,” he remarked, his tone tinged with amusement. “I must say, when I received the call about a VIP client, I imagined I’d be meeting with some obscure, closeted CEO who thinks he’s top shit. Consider my prospects for the night drastically improved,” he added with a smirk. “Although, surely I’ve stepped into an alternate reality, because I know there is no way in hell Colton Ray has to pay for sex. What gives, sugar?”
Kitten’s candid inquiry caught me off guard. Although, weirdly enough, having the elephant in the room addressed helped ease my nerves a little. Perhaps unloading my baggage to a neutral third party—one bound by confidentiality—could alleviate some of the burdens weighing on my shoulders.
“Ah, it’s kinda a long story,” I replied, my hands fidgeting awkwardly as I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Well, you’ve got me for the whole night, hon. If you want to use me as your free therapist before we head down to bone town, I’m all ears,” Kitten offered, bouncing onto the bed beside me and resting his chin in his palm, resembling a child eagerly awaiting story time.
“Please, tell me you didn’t just say “get down to bone town,”” I deadpanned, although I felt the ghost of a smile threatening to break free.
“What, not crass enough for you? I’ve got others. Let me think,” Kitten responded, dramatically tapping his chin with his perfectly manicured index finger, though I suspected it was all an act. I’d bet money he easily had a hundred euphemisms for sex memorized. “Before we boarded the beef bus? Filled the cream donut? Slytherined the Hufflepuff? Oh, I know! Before we creame the twinkie! Better?”
Unexpectedly, I burst into laughter. Not a mere chuckle, but a full-bodied eruption that left me doubled over, tears streaming down my cheeks. It had been two years, six weeks, and four days since I’d truly laughed like this, but who’s counting? And that realization transformed my laughter into sobs in the blink of an eye.
It took Kitten a moment to register the shift in my demeanor, but when he did, his long lean arms enveloped me in a comforting hug. He gently patted my back in soothing circles, whispering reassurances. “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay, hon. Let it out. You let it all out, and then you tell me if there’s anything I can do for you.”
For what felt like an eternity, we remained in that position. Kitten’s presence was oddly comforting, and as my tears slowly subsided and my hiccups faded, I felt compelled to unburden my problems on him. Clearly, keeping everything bottled up hadn’t worked, so what did I have to lose at this point?
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess,” I admitted hoarsely, sitting up and putting some distance between us so that we were facing each other on opposite sides of the mattress.
“Darling, if you think this is a mess, you have a very romanticized view of the kinds of people who hire Hollywood male escorts,” Kitten quipped, his tone light but with an underlying sincerity.
“Um, okay. Now I’m curious.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are, sugar. My life is endlessly fascinating. But cut the shit and stop deflecting. Tonight is about you, and I have a feeling the reason I’m here goes a lot deeper than wanting a quick hookup. Am I right?” Kitten’s insight cut through my defenses with surprising accuracy.
Damn, he was good, I’d give him that. My baffled expression must have given me away, because he added, “Now don’t you look so shocked. I’m more than a pretty face, I’ll have you know! I only escort to finish paying for Masters in Clinical Psychology. Well, that and I like fucking. Actually, I don’t really care about the money,” he amended with a sly grin. “Anyway, I can smell bullshit from a mile away, and sweetheart, you smell like a sewer. Now spill.”
“Okay, but on one condition,” I agreed hesitantly.
“Don’t worry, that NDA I signed is ironclad, if that’s what you’re worried about. Plus, I don’t blab. You don’t last long in my line of work if you’ve got a big mouth. Well, I should say a loose mouth, because all the boys seem to love my big mouth,” Kitten added with another playful wink.
I couldn’t help but marvel at his ability to put me at ease. His charisma and emotional intelligence sadly reminded me of a certain someone, but I quickly quashed those thoughts. I found myself wishing I had someone like him in my corner, someone who understood when to make a joke to cut the tension, but also when to deal out a bit of tough love.
“Actually, I wanted to know your real name. I don’t want to sound judgmental, but I don’t think I can spill my deepest darkest secrets and then say “Kitten” with a straight face,” I confessed honestly, hoping my inquiry wasn’t too intrusive. Not that he seemed like the type of person who cared about boundaries, but still.
“Well, I have no problem with you knowing my real name, since I have a feeling we’re going to become pretty damn close, but I can’t say that you’ll be able to keep any more of a straight face calling me Wilbur instead of Kitten,” he replied, his disdain for his birth name dripping from his words.
“I could call you Willy,” I said slyly, feeling a spark of my former sass resurfacing.
“Oh, kid’s got jokes,” he retorted dryly. “Fine, you can call me Willy if you want, but there better be some tea in this sob story bitch, or I’m revoking that right.”
“Okay,” I breathed out. “I’m not really sure where to even start…” I trailed off.
“Why don’t we start with what compelled you to pay for my services tonight? I’m getting the vibe this isn’t a regular occurrence for you? Are you in the closet? Were you wanting to experiment with your sexuality?” Willy asked gently.
“Oh God, no! I mean, the closet part. This is my first time doing this,” I gestured between us to get my point across. “But, no, my sexuality isn’t a secret. I don’t like, flaunt it at gay bars or anything, but I’d never lie about it if someone asked.”
Taking a deep breath, I continued. “I decided to hire a professional because I haven’t had sex with anyone in over two years, and the last time I tried to with a fan, I ended up half naked in the fetal position and having a panic attack. I figured I might have better luck with a sex worker who is paid not to judge me when it’s obvious I’m not really into it.”
