02-08-10

“I’m not a hooker,” he says repeatedly. “I’m a surrogate lover.”

The United States has its first male prostitute. Leave it to Nevada. I’m attempting to read an already discombobulating article on the New York Times in the middle of jumping up to put Iz on the potty…three times. I’m not sure if it’s the Coca-cola I’ve traded out my routine morning tea for today (combined with all the running to beat iz to the bathroom with her frantic pee-pee dancing), or the article, but it becomes more nauseating as I go along.

His name is Markus, and his lips– if he were female we would, of course make some grand observation about being able to suck the paint off of an inanimate object, but he’s not. His lips look like they forgot to remove the collagen from the cow before putting it in the needle and having a go at it. They scare me. Go to the article if you don’t believe me. They just look wrong.

The article continues along it’s train wreck path (train wreck experience, the article is delightful), adding such awesome anecdotes as:

Minutes later, as we’re standing naked in the shower, he’s examining me like a second-rate gynecologist and nodding.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, cooing that I’m “practically” an 8 or a 9. “Everything looks great down there.”

Oh. My. God.

I am only his second client, he has been with a total of six women in his life, and, to be perfectly honest, he lost his virginity at 23.

Before becoming America’s first legal “prosti-dude,” Markus dabbled in porn while he lived in Los Angeles but quit after just two scenes because he found it too degrading to women.

He also loves cooking French cuisine. Favorite meal: chicken cordon bleu.