Page 12 of The Plus One Pact

Even after Dad died, we had money. And it didn't matter that we had each other anymore.

Because we had money.

Who needs class or street smarts or good behavior with that?

I went from a child who didn’t expect presents the way the other American kids did to a teenager with the entire world at my fingertips.

Not that my brother Daniel acts like he's set to inherit a fortune. No, my 4.2 GPA, straight-as-an-arrow brother worked two jobs every summer, earned his MBA while working as an executive assistant, and is still climbing the corporate ladder.

He works harder than I do. He always has.

But that's because he's a sucker.

We earn the same quarter million dollars.

I'm the one who sleeps in a twenty-million-dollar mansion. Once a month, yes, but still—

I have to enjoy victories against my brother when I find them. There aren't that many.

The shower turns off. I stand, stretch, get back to work. Technically, my client paid for service from seven to seven. Technically, I'm finished for the day. But a good contractor always goes the extra mile.

Dad taught me that.

I move into the bathroom in my birthday suit.

My client catches my reflection through the mirror. Even though she's seen me in this state a hundred times, she blushes.

She's a sweet woman. Even though I wouldn't take her home for free, I enjoy my time with her. She's an ideal client. Kind, generous, enthusiastic.

She didn't have good sex in her marriage. She didn't know how. Her husband didn’t, either.

He meant well, but he didn't have the tools to draw things out until she was begging for it, to use enough lube for her to feel comfortable (at her age, she needs plenty), to make her feel cherished and sexy.

Is there anything better than teaching someone how to feel pleasure?

I suppose I should thank my mother for that. But I can't exactly say, gee, mama, I'm glad you forced me to slow down, and taste the pizza, that's what makes me so good at making sure my clients come.

It's not just that—

It's the culture too.

American men don't know subtlety. They can't flirt to save their life. Just look at my brother, Daniel. So desperate to fit into the states he's as stiff and neurotic as a character on a New York-based sitcom.

I smile. "Should I join you, dolcezza?" I use an Italian pet name. Some clients prefer to imagine me as a Roman Casanova. Others like the image of a down-on-his-luck boy from Mexico.

Both are true. More or less.

Mom is from Rome. Dad grew up in Mexico. Neither one of them had much money. Until Great-Aunt Marisol brought it into the family.

When I first got into the business, I tried to play up my racial ambiguity. To be anyone my client wanted. But it didn't work.

There are versions of myself I can offer, but they have to bear some resemblance to the real guy. I really do love sex and pleasure and pasta and wine.

And I really did grow up with too little, wondering how I'd find extra cash to help out, how I'd ever pay my own way through school…

No. Women aren't like that. They don't really care why I started turning tricks. They don't need a college boy who's paying his tuition. (Not that I can pull off college boy anymore. I have to sell myself as a hard-up grad student).

They don't associate their money with their ability to buy a relationship the way men do.