Okay.  Aside from the money and gifts and pampering and confidence boost that being lusted after will give you, I must admit there was a downside to escort work.  Not everything is all Bvlgari and Prada, hors d’oeuvres and champagne.  Some things weren’t so pretty – fetish-feeding (do you really think anyone in their right mind would want some middle-aged, hedge fund manager to jerk off from fondling their feet?), ass-kissing (unfortunately, sometimes literally), balding men, beer bellies, constantly sweating men who think their paid companions enjoy being drenched in their sweat (Drysol anyone?), not to mention liver spots, wrinkles, and wrinkled members. 

What awaited me in Room 5310, however, pretty much tops the list of the unpleasant side of the business.  By far.  The difference was the same as the difference between a Cubic Zircona and a Harry Winston rock, a girl prowling alleys and street corners for a customer and a girl serving a customer in a five-star luxury hotel – champagne included.

  I backed up as far as I could, but somehow, I found that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the large king-size bed.  No, it wasn’t the silk-covered throw or the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets that glued my eyes to the sight before me.

There, spread-eagled in all his naked glory (or lack thereof) was Tom Heinwitz.  Or at least who I assumed was Tom.  Leila’s client.  Even under such an appalling circumstance, I couldn’t help but notice that he, like half of the clients the girls described, was middle-aged with a receding hairline and paunchy belly that splayed to the sides and enveloped his stunningly small, shrunken member.  I couldn’t even imagine it engorged or the man in action.  This was the man the girls claimed liked things rough and got off of being the dominant one?  With him so lifeless, so helpless now, it seemed so impossible.

He was pale and his abundance of flesh had a latex-like texture, visible even beneath all the body hair that gave him the appearance of being on the verge of transforming into Bear Foot.  Even from my distance, I could see that a black, cat o’ nine tails whip was wrapped repeatedly around his neck.  A thin silk Hermes scarf (I could recognize the tell-tale rich colors and precise details anywhere) was bundled and stuffed into his mouth. 

Whoever did this was truly out of their mind.  How could they wrinkle an Hermes scarf like that? 

His head was turned to me, seemingly staring at me with the unseeing glassy blue eyes of the lifeless.  His eyeballs bulged, threatening to pop out of their sockets.

Now I really wished I hadn’t worn these damn stilettos.  My knees were about as strong and functional as fuzzy pink handcuffs.  They threatened to give out within the next second.  I looked around my feet to make sure there weren’t any sticky blood stains in my vicinity, in case my legs did fail me.

When I first entered the room, I hadn’t really noticed anything but Tom.  I mean, come on, a dead body was a pretty commanding presence.  Now though, the reeking stench of urine made its way up my nostril.  I looked around.  I was shocked, yes, and yes, I was creeped out.  But I was pretty sure that I still had full control of my bladder (it would be a shame to have to throw out this new lace La Perla panties).  No, the source of the stench was…from the bed.  There, right between Tom’s splayed thighs was an incriminating yellowish stain.

How long had he been like that?  He must have been alive at 3:15 pm, since Leila had called to confirm that all was as smooth as satin.

Despite my initial shock, my wits slowly returned to me.  I looked around the room.  From what I could see, or more accurately, what I couldn’t see, everything else appeared in order. 

This was horrible. 

Big-shot, big-money customer refusing to comply with agency standards horrible.