The Philanthropist

I'm not a non-profit

Charity, as they say, begins at home. In my line of work, however, "home" tends to be wherever the hard-on is.

📱 The Newly Sprung

There's a particular species of gentleman who surfaces on the apps mid-divorce — Gen X, respectably fit, utterly bewildered by his own freedom. His texts give him away before the phone call does. He had, by his own account, a marriage of some quality until he didn't. Somewhere between her personal renaissance and his sudden solitude, romance simply... relocated. He's not looking for trouble. He's looking for tenderness, and possibly some help finding the "unsend" button on twenty years of monogamy.

He books the shortest session on the menu. The overnight rate, when quoted, produces the sort of silence usually reserved for bad news from a doctor. There's a joke about cows. There's always a joke about cows. I've heard better ones from bad 1950’s slapstick comedy’s

But my photographs pass muster, my age is agreeable, and so — bravely, magnanimously — he decides to give it a go. He even warns me, with touching sincerity, that I might fall for him.

I manage not to.

We get on rather well, as it happens. He finds me easy to talk to, which is the point, and stays well past his allotted time, which is not. When he suggests dinner, I gently propose extending the booking.

"I'll pay for the meal," he says, wounded. "You don't actually expect me to pay for you to join me, do you?"

I do, in fact. That's rather the arrangement.

✈️ The Almost-Enlightened

Then there's the more seasoned version of this gentleman — several dates in, having sampled the market, and now grasping, with the dawning clarity of a man who's finally read the manual, that what he has with me is rather good.

Bashfully, he mentions a place. Isla Mujeres, perhaps, or Playa del Carmen. He'll cover the flight. The hotel too — modest, but charming, he assures me. The seafood's a steal. We could lock ourselves away three or four times a day. A proper break for you, he says. Sun, relaxation, and — wink, nudge — I'll show you a real good time.

I smile. I nod. I do not allow my face to register what my soul is quietly screaming, which is: not in this lifetime, darling, and certainly not for free.

Here is a man offering me his dream holiday — the same one, one rather suspects, he once floated to a wife or girlfriend in headier days — except now the destination has been repackaged as compensation. A two-star hotel and an all-you-can-eat buffet, offered in lieu of payment, as though sunstroke and shellfish constitute a wage.

One does wonder whether he's ever invited his solicitor on holiday to discuss the divorce, flight included, in exchange for legal counsel rendered poolside. I suspect not. Yet here I am, apparently expected to treat my own hourly rate as a charitable cause with excellent snorkelling.

💼 The Point, Gently Made

My business is companionship, properly compensated. Time together — real, attentive, unhurried togetherness — simply costs more the longer it runs. That's not unreasonable; it's arithmetic.

Being flown somewhere warm to perform round-the-clock devotion is not a holiday. It's a very long shift with a better view.

Diplomacy, in this profession, is not optional. One is handling the tender, bruised egos of men mid-transformation, and that requires kid gloves, patience, and — occasionally — a very well-concealed eye-roll.

But do bring up the rate card before booking the flights, gentlemen. I promise it saves us both the awkward conversation on the tarmac.