Free Do it like Magic Mike (Regular Sex Issue 3) by Kitty French Page A

Calls herself Laurel, tells me she works in a bank and needs someone to break
her man drought. I tell you all of this with a healthy dose of caution, because
my customers often tweak the version of the truth they share with me.
    I get that. I
could be a stalker, or a psycho, or god knows what else. Truth told I don’t
need their real names or their information; it’s not relevant for me to do my
job. In fact, I’m not a big sharer when it comes to personal details, theirs or
my own.
    We’re meeting in
a restaurant downtown, I’ll pick up the tab, and then well... it’s down to
Laurel where we go from there. Hers? A hotel? Or I could just see her safely to
a cab. That happens every now and then, someone genuinely just needs a fake
date and doesn’t want the optional extras. I don’t take it personally; I’m a
big boy and I get laid often enough to not be needy.
    I don’t know
which way it’s going to go with Laurel yet; she hasn’t given me much to go on.
She might be anything from eighteen to eighty. Actually, scratch that. She
works in a bank, so she’s likely to be sub sixty. Hey, I can see you sitting there
now with your brow furrowed again, but let me tell you something. I’ve had
several dates with older ladies and they have been pretty darn interesting.
With age comes experience; that’s all I’m prepared to say. A gentleman never
tells.
    Right. I need to
hit the shower. I’ve got a hot date.
     
    It’s a few
minutes after eight and Laurel hasn’t turned up yet. That’s another
occupational hazard; clients sometimes get cold feet. Call it fear of the
unknown, or call it fear of being upfront enough to pay for sex rather than coyly
dressing the situation up as a first date with some guy from Tinder. I kind of
like the clarity of doing things my way.
    I pour myself
some water and eye the door, even though I don’t really need to; I’ve used this
restaurant often enough now for the ‘maître d’ to know me by name, give me a
secluded booth, and escort my date over when she arrives.
    Speaking of
which... a woman has just come in alone. I watch her speak with Alfonse, and
then he glances my way. Game on.
     
    I’ll give it to
Laurel, she has me intrigued. She’s pretty in an understated, classy kind of
way; nude makeup and a simple black dress that holds her curves the way I hope
I’m going to get to hold them later. She’s pulled her dark hair back in a clip
at the nape of her neck; that has to go. I might even hurl it across the room
when I take it out to make a point of how fabulous I think her hair is. Girls
like that macho stuff. I’ve listened to her talk over dinner, and ninety-nine
percent of that time I’ve looked her in the eye rather than the rack, which is
pretty fucking angelic of me given that she looks like she’s packing a mighty
fine pair. Okay, maybe ninety- eight percent of the time. And yes, I admit
to checking out her ass when she went to the bathroom a couple of minutes back,
but that’s to be expected, right?
    I wish she wasn’t
wearing wedge heels. Why do women do that? You may as well tie hay bales to
your feet. I’ve yet to see a pair of legs that wouldn’t look a million times better
for a decent pair of heels.
    Truth told, Lauren’s
got me on the back-foot. She’s hot, and she’s smart, and she’s pretty funny
too.
    Why is she
suffering a man drought? She’s a tough cookie to read, but for me, that only
makes her all the more interesting.
    I watch her walk
back across the room, and see more than one guy discreetly check her out.
    Not tonight boys.
She’s with me.
     
    ‘Back to mine?’
she says quietly as I hold her jacket for her to slip into. I’m glad she can’t
see my face because I can’t keep the grin off it.
     
    ‘Hers’ turns out
to be the ground floor flat of a tall terraced house decorated in the same low-key
sexy style as its occupier. It screams middle of the road, and I sense that
beneath all of this light, polite facade there’s a bad