Kept Man: Firsts and Forever Stories

Looking the part was key. Underneath, I was still the same skinny, uncultured kid from the trailer park, but the beautiful suit and expensive haircut told a different story.

Now that I was dressed, I sat at the desk in the corner of my pale blue bedroom and exhaled slowly. Despite taking my time getting ready, I was still early.

To pass the time, I opened my sleek, silver laptop, then navigated to my web page. This was how most of my clients found me, and it told the same story as the suit I wore.

The page was elegant, understated, and as tasteful as this type of thing could reasonably be. My first name appeared in white, in a pretty script at the top of the black page. Beneath that, all it said was “Professional Escort,” followed by some contact information. Since prostitution was illegal, I obviously didn’t spell out the fact that clients could pay to fuck me. That was also why I called myself an escort. Yeah, right. The only place I escorted most of my clients was straight to bed.

Beneath the text were several black-and-white nude photos of me, taken by a high-end photographer. None of them showed my face. I liked to think the pictures were tasteful too, even if my ass was featured in a few of them. Hey, it paid to advertise. Plus, those photos made it pretty clear sex was absolutely a part of the services I offered.

I clicked through to the email address linked to my web page and found a new message waiting for me from a guy named Seth. He said he’d recently started working as a rent boy, and he wanted to know if I’d be willing to give him some advice on the business end of things. That made me feel like some sort of shriveled, Yoda-like old-timer, being looked to for guidance by the next generation of eager, bright-eyed sex workers. But sure, whatever. I’d get back to him when I had more time.

Beneath that were the emails I’d exchanged with the new client I was meeting this evening. His first message, which I’d received two days ago, said: Hey, how’s it going? My name is Micah, and I was intrigued by your website. That’s a classy way of saying I couldn’t stop staring at your smoking hot photos. I’d like to invite you to dinner at my place on the Fourth of July. If we hit it off, I have an unusual proposition I want to discuss with you. P.S. I promise I’m not some weird perv, even though I’m literally trying to lure you into my house and that seems creepy AF.

That had made me smile, which was never the case with emails from potential clients. I’d sent back my standard polite, business-like reply, including how much I charged for a dinner “date,” and we’d made plans from there.

Even though I had no idea what to expect, I felt cautiously optimistic based on that initial email. I got up and straightened my suit jacket. Time to go find out what this guy considered unusual.

Chapter 2

When the cab driver dropped me off at my destination, I double-checked the address on my phone and whispered, “Really?”

It was tough for anyplace to seem isolated in San Francisco, but this house managed it. The huge mansion was at the end of a block, beside a steep drop-off. It was surrounded by a tall brick fence, and what I could glimpse from the street made me think the Addams family would have felt right at home here.

I wondered how I was going to get in since there was no buzzer, but then I realized the latch was broken and the wooden gate swung freely on its hinges. When I stepped through it, the first thing I noticed was the ivy that was totally taking over the yard. It had probably been nicely landscaped once, since I could see things like rosebushes peeking through the overgrowth. At some point though, it seemed like the homeowners had completely stopped giving a shit.

Then there was the house. I’d known it was big and dark based on the glimpse I’d gotten from the street, but wow. The four-story Victorian looked like a goth’s wet dream. It had an odd roofline with all sorts of peaks and turrets, and it was painted a deep shade of plum with black trim. While it wasn’t sinister, it also wasn’t exactly welcoming.

But whatever. I was here to do a job, even if that meant a three-way with Gomez and Morticia.

I walked up to the house, climbed the stairs, and muttered, “What the hell?”

The door seemed to be off to the right within the covered and partially enclosed front porch—not that I could actually see it behind the stacks of Amazon boxes, which were piled floor to ceiling. Since they wouldn’t have been delivered on the Fourth of July, I could only assume they’d been there a while. Okay, so maybe this guy was a shut-in. Maybe he had agoraphobia. Maybe—maybe I should just ring the doorbell and quit it with the theories.