Although I have a feeling that not even a coupon, 20% off, or Presidents Day sale is going to help this guy.
I'm here all week, folks. Try the veal! Remember to tip your waitress . . .A $500 cash advance, an overnight flight to Vegas and a 2 1/2-hour car ride later, I arrive at the brothel. I’m sweaty, stinky and pumped from listening to “lite-romance” radio. Because truly: Nothing gets you in the mood for a legal male hooker like “Wind Beneath My Wings.”
“So,” Markus says after leaning over and kissing my knee, “we’re going to get undressed and then take a shower. Then we can both inspect each other to make sure there are no discrepancies.”
Discrepancies? Like "dude looks like a lady?"
“Yeah,” he murmurs, cooing that I’m “practically” an 8 or a 9. “Everything looks great down there.”
Nothing will flatter a woman more, dumbshit, then telling her she is less than perfect. Evidently, male prostitutes skip the salesmanship classes.
Over the next two hours, Markus shares his personal bits, too. Originally from Hatton, Ala., he felt abandoned by his mother after his parents divorced at an early age. (This is why, he says, he got into male prostitution, to find the intimacy that he lacked.)
Sure, customers want to feel like a surrogate mother with a male hooker. Ew.
Before becoming America’s first legal “prosti-dude,” Markus dabbled in porn while he lived in Los Angeles but quit after just two scenes because he found it too degrading to women.
Isn't it ironic, doncha think?
He says he’s never had an STD and doesn’t worry about getting women pregnant (“because you can feel it when a condom breaks”). He repeatedly asks to show me his abilities and flicks out his scarily Gene Simmons-esque tongue which totally turns me off. Who wants a man this eager?
At least Gene Simmons has a personality, an intellect, and is funnier than hell. Did you know Gene Simmons speaks about six languages? I guess that makes him a cunning linguist. But I digress . . .
In case it ever comes up, Markus says he’s learned much of his sexual technique from the “Karma Sutra,” and the reason he’s such a good lover is because he was “sensory deprived” by his mother.
Oh, so he's homeschooled.
He probably would have been better off reading a couple of Harlequin Romances.
“I’ve healed people,” he says of his lovemaking ability, which most recently included his first client — a 45-year-old woman who hadn’t been laid in two years and in Markus’ words “was wild as a bug.”
The Deepak Chopra of the stud ranch.
As romantic as that sounds, I tell him how much it turns me on to hear about something romantic. He looks genuinely befuddled. “Let me think,” he says. “Like what, like being on a horse ranch?”
Sure, if you're Catherine the Great. Okay, that was a myth. She played the ponies but only at the track.
He tells me that if you can “pronunciate” words well, it means you are great at pleasuring a woman.
We just love those men who can in-tell-LECK-shur-ah-lize.
He’s half Irish, a quarter Native American, a quarter Scandinavian and all lover. Favorite book: “1984.” Favorite movie: “Braveheart.” Actor he’s like: “Steve-O.” Musician he’s like: “Moby,” or — wait for it — “Choppin” (meaning Chopin).
When he goes to the store, does he bring his Chopin Liszt?
Does "Steve-O" refer to Steve McQueen or Steve Buscemi? There is a difference . . . and this encounter suggests the latter.
“The concept of beauty has changed over the years,” he continues. “It’s like the
cave paintings. Venus de Milo. It used to be the voluptuous woman,” he says as
he eyes me up and down.
Hold up, hold up. “Did you just call me fat?” I ask.
Then he asks me to spank him.
At that point, I'd beat the shit out of him. And not in a good way, believe you me.
Dude - quit your day job.
