Free Bad Behavior #1: Tales of an American Gigolo by Childers Lewis Page A

shower, she's wearing a set of silver silk pajamas. The thin fabric outlines a figure taut from exercise, a body I know as well as my own. I walk across the room, naked, knowing she likes to watch me, and dress slowly in front of her.
    “We’ll have to skip next week,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “But we can pick up our regular schedule the following week.”
    “Okay. Works for me.” In truth, I can use a little time off. The last few months have been a whirlwind of activity. I bend to drop a kiss on her cheek. One of her hands slips an envelope, my payment, into the back pocket of my jeans and something else, something bulky. I reach into my pocket and draw out a set of car keys. They dangle from a gold fob. “What’s this?”
    “It’s a little something extra, for being so sweet.” The fingertips of her left-hand trail over my ass, ending in a pat.
    I narrow my eyes. She’s always been generous to a fault, but this—this is something new. “You’re lending me your car?”
    “No, I’m giving you a car.” An indulgent smile curves her lips.
    “I can’t take this.” Payment for sex is one thing; a car is something entirely different. It’s too permanent, too tangible. I hand the keys back to her.
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” She shoves my hand aside. “It’s yours, darling. Free and clear.” As a Cook County judge, she's used to giving commands and being obeyed. "Take the damn car. Enjoy it. Life is too short." Her voice softens, and so does the hardness in her eyes. "You work hard, Bastien. You’ve earned it.”
    I don’t mean to brag, but I’m good at what I do, and I take pride in my skills. I also have a natural head for business. Combining the two assets only seems natural. My success is based on the simple matter of supply versus demand. Women crave a good fuck. Not awkward fumbling under the sheets or a quick grope and poke. They want ball-slapping, headboard-banging, finger-clutching sex by a man who knows what he’s doing. Turns out, they’re also happy to pay for it.
    I take the keys. Hell, I’m no fool. My pride smarts for an entire thirty seconds, but the sting disappears the minute I set eyes on my prize. A cobalt blue, sleek and shiny, Lexus SC sits in a reserved space on the ground floor of the parking garage. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, next to a woman’s face when she comes. I trail my fingertips over the glossy paint and sink into the buttery leather seat with a moan of pure hedonistic pleasure. Behind the steering wheel, I take the envelope from my back pocket and thumb through the fat stack of hundred dollar bills, all fifty of them. Not bad for two hours of work, and a new car to boot.
    It’s hard to believe. Four years ago—hell, last year —I was penniless, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and damn near suicidal. Today, at the tender age of twenty-four, it feels like I’ve got the world by the ass, and I’ve got to tell you—it doesn’t suck.

    A few days later, I’m in the gym at my apartment building. The girl on the treadmill next to mine keeps looking at me. I punch up the speed and ignore the slide of her gaze over my body. I run for thirty minutes. She matches my pace, and I’m impressed. Not a bad looking girl. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a breast man. Her tits jiggle inside a snug pink athletic bra. Nice. If I hadn’t just finished a night of marathon fucking with two women, I’d be all over that voluptuous body of hers, but I'm tired, my refrigerator is empty, and I need to pick up my dry cleaning after the workout. At the end of my run, I stop the machine and hop off, pausing to wipe down the surfaces before heading toward the elevator and my apartment upstairs. Her footsteps ghost mine. She boards the elevator with me and gets off on the fourth floor. I continue up to the twentieth floor where I shower and change clothes, drink a protein shake, before heading to the street.
    When I come out of the building,