The Boyfriend Diaries: A Romance Box Set Collection

by S. E. Law

  I step into the living room and kick off my mid-heel shoes. Then I pad over to the kitchen and take a can of soup down from the cabinet before emptying the contents into a bowl and popping it into the microwave. This is what it’s come down to: I’m now eating canned soup, all alone in my apartment like a spinster.

  After all, my date tonight was awful. Brian seemed like he would be okay. I met him off a site called Two To Tango, and he had a great profile. He’s a teacher by day, so I thought we’d have a lot in common since we both work with kids. Plus, he had a head of brown hair and dark blue eyes that were serious yet humorous at once.

  Unfortunately, when I got to the bar, I could see immediately that he was wearing a toupee. It wasn’t even a good one. It looked like he had a rat’s nest on his head, with bits of his real sandy blonde hair poking out around his ears. The man was wearing a blue blazer, but that’s the weird thing: even though he had a toupee on, his shoulders were covered in a snowfall of dandruff.

  How does that happen? How can a wig give you dandruff? I wanted to turn around and leave immediately, but Brian looked so eager to meet me in person, that I didn’t have the heart. Instead, I stayed at the bar and listened to him prattle for forty-five minutes about his job. Evidently, the fifth graders he teaches don’t make fun of him about his fake hair. Or if they do, at least they do it behind his back.

  But finally, I found a way to excuse myself and slunk off into the NYC night. Tonight is actually my birthday, but I didn’t want to mention it to Brian because then he might find some way to extend our date. Instead, I hightailed it home, only to come back to a dark, empty apartment.

  The microwave beeps and my soup is ready. Taking the hot bowl between my hands, I sink onto my green plaid couch. It’s saggy and uncomfortable, but it will do. Breathing deep, I inhale the tangy scent of tomato soup. Mmmm.

  Gingerly balancing the soup on my knee, I grab my spoon with one hand and take a sip. Yum! The broth is thick, spicy, and hits the spot. With my other hand, I hold my phone and idly glance at the screen. On it, an envelope icon shows that I have an email. My thumb taps the image, and a message pops up. It’s from my old college friend, Carly, but there are no words inside. Instead, there’s merely a picture of her lying suggestively on a bed in a negligee with a smirk on her face. Next to her is a hunk of a guy, wearing nothing but skivvies and a t-shirt that says Hot Nights NYC.

  Oh my god, did she really do it? Did Carly finally get around to hiring a male escort? It seems unlikely, but clearly, I have proof to the contrary right here in front of me. Then another push notification comes up, and my thumb taps on the envelope icon again.

  Oh my gosh, it’s another message from Carly, and this one too is just a photo. Now, she’s got the man wrapped in her arms, his broad muscled back facing towards the camera. Both her legs are splayed on either side of his torso, and she’s making a moaning face of ecstasy, like she’s getting it good. Holy cow, does he even know she’s recording this? He must, because the angle looks kind of awkward like she’s taking a selfie.

  One more message comes through, and this third email is all text and no photos, thank god. It merely says.

  Happy Dirty Thirty Birthday! Xoxo, Carly

  I let the phone slip from my fingers. Holy shit, my friend really did it. She hired a male escort, and is now reminding me of our bucket list from so long ago. To tell the truth, there wasn’t much of a “list” per se. Carly had her one thing, which was to use a male gigolo, and I had my one thing, which was to be with two guys at once. That was the sum and substance of our lists, period.

  But evidently, Carly’s delivered. She remembered that today was my birthday, and she’s texting me these photos as motivation. Holy shit. The problem is that I’m nowhere near close to hooking up with two men. In fact, I don’t even have one guy to call my own. If I had a boyfriend, maybe I could propose a threesome of some sort with one of his friends, but without even one, how can I move to two?

  Suddenly, Carly’s voice comes back to me. Hey girlfriend, she says. You have to go on-line! Everyone finds guys on-line these days.

  God knows Carly has, and it’s worked great from the looks of it. With slow fingers, I tap over to the Hot Nights NYC site. It’s actually quite professional looking. There’s a flower on the front, with a “Certify you’re 18” button. I press it, and a drape appears to fall over the screen, before pulling back and revealing a list of checkboxes.

  Hmm, what should I check? Slowly, my fingers tap the appropriate boxes. I am a woman, looking for a man, within 50 miles of New York City. Perfect. I click “Go,” and then my phone hums before a new page loads.

  This time, it looks like a yearbook of sorts. There are smiling pictures of men with their names in bold print below them. There’s Tyler, Henry, Jude, Jock and Rocky, to name a few. A lot of them are really handsome, and my heart begins to beat quickly. Just as an experiment, I tap on the one named Rocky. He’s a smiling man with bronzed skin, black hair, and humorous blue eyes.

  I’m taken to a new page where there’s a bio of Rocky. Hmm, very nice. He’s 35, and hails from Cuba. He likes salsa, salsa verde, and playing with his dog Butch. He’s also available. I save him in my “Likes” list.

  But how do I find two men who are willing to do a threesome? I quickly scroll through some of the other bios, and to be honest, these guys are gorgeous. They have to be, after all. They’re male gigolos who are going to make a buck from sleeping with women, so I’m sure these photos are photoshopped to highlight their essential assets. I throw a few more into my “Likes” basket, but then my fingers stop because a new man has caught my eye.

  Holy shit, this guy is gorgeous. His stats list him as six foot five, two hundred and forty pounds, and his name is Raider. He likes dogs (check); Italian food (check); and likes to go for walks in the rain. Okay, I don’t love walks in the rain, but it does sound very romantic. Then, there’s a line that catches my eye at the bottom. Evidently, he has a twin and is willing to do house calls with his twin, Ryan, for a very lucky lady.

  My breathing goes fast, and my heart races. Am I really going to do this? It seems like a special gift has fallen into my lap because how often do you find dark, handsome twin male gigolos who are willing to go in on it together? Trembling, my finger clicks on the “Add to Cart” button, and I take a deep breath. My life’s about to change, and now, I can’t wait.

  93

  Amy

  Hmmm. I just clicked on the “Add to Cart” button for Raider, and he was moved to my cart. Then I clicked on his twin Ryan’s profile, and also added him to my cart. Now I’m staring at a cart with two handsome men’s profile photos, but there’s no “Purchase” button. In fact, there isn’t even a price. How weird.

  I navigate to Help and tap on the number associated with their customer service hotline. My phone rings a bit and then a woman answers.

  “Hello, this is Davenport Drapes. How may I help you?”

  “Um, I’m sorry?” I ask. “I think I have the wrong number.”

  The woman immediately speaks.

  “Oh, perhaps I can help. Who are you looking for?”

  “Um, Hot Nights NYC. Do they exist?”

  She lets out a merry chuckle.

  “They do indeed! Let me get you over to them.”

  The line goes still for a moment, but then a click sounds and a new woman speaks. Her voice is huskier and smokier, like she smokes a lot of cigarettes.

  “Hello, Hot Nights. How may I help you?”

  “Um, yes,” I begin. “I’m looking to make a date with Raider from your site? Is that possible?”

  There’s a slight pause.

  “Of course. When would you like the date to take place?”

  I clear my throat a bit. I want to make it for this weekend, but the truth is that if I do, I know I might just call back and cancel. I have to be brave, and take the plunge while the fire is still hot.

  “Well, tonight would be great, if that’s possible.”

 
I hear a tapping sound on the other side.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not available tonight.”

  “Oh really?” I say in a disappointed voice. “Then maybe I’ll call back later.”

  The woman doesn’t answer for a moment, but then she speaks again.

  “Actually, we do a house call at 2 a.m. if you’re available.”

  Two a.m.? Is she kidding? Most nights, I’m in bed and sound asleep by eleven. But I don’t want to lose this momentum, so I merely swallow.

  “Okay sure, 2 a.m. works. Is his twin Ryan also available?” I ask.

  The woman lets out a throaty chuckle.

  “So you’re one of those, are you? Well, let me check. The twins have been very in-demand recently.”

  My heart thumps as she goes silent once more. What does “in-demand” mean? Does that mean that they’ve slept with every woman in the Tri-State area? Does that mean that I should cancel this appointment right now before I get even deeper?

  But then her voice comes back on.

  “You’re in luck. In fact, Ryan is also available at two a.m. tonight. Would you like to book them?”

  I clear my throat unsteadily. It’s now or never.

  “Yes, please.”

  The woman lets out another amused chuckle and I can hear the keys tapping as she works her computer.

  “One more thing. Are you LGBT positive? Do you support the queer population and gay marriage?”

  I’m totally confused.

  “Um, yes, I do. But I’m confused. I’m hiring two hetero men, right? I’m female, and I’m looking to be with men only.”

  The woman on the other line merely continues tapping at her keys.

  “That’s great. Hot Nights NYC promotes tolerance and inclusivity, so we try to only work with clients who support these values. Great. I have you on board. That will be three thousand dollars, please. Credit card, I presume?”

  My phone almost slips from my fingers, and all thoughts of LGBT inclusiveness slip from my mind.

  “Three thousand?” I gasp. “I can’t afford that!”

  The woman merely purrs on the other side.

  “I’m sure you can, sweetheart. Trust me, a night with Ryan and Raider is one that you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Lots of women have done it, and they literally say it’s the best two hours they’ve ever experienced. Worth every penny, and that’s a direct quote.”

  I gasp into the phone again, my hand shaking. This is crazy. Three thousand dollars is what I make in a month at the pre-school. I’ll have to be late with rent, not to mention skimping on things like groceries and haircuts.

  But again, it’s my Dirty Thirty birthday, where Carly and I promised that we’d check off the things on our bucket lists. Am I willing to go all out to make this dream come true? On the one hand, I’ll barely have enough food to get by for the next month. But on the other, I’ll be satisfying a promise I made to myself so long ago.

  Besides, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Not only that, but my current life isn’t exactly thrilling and successful. I make small beans at my nine-to-five, and I live in a studio apartment that’s four hundred square feet. Maybe I should hire these men as a treat to myself for surviving in a difficult, expensive city where nothing comes without blood, sweat, and tears.

  With a tremor to my voice, I make the decision.

  “Sign me up,” I say. “Here’s my credit card number.”

  With that, the woman books me for tonight, and as I put my cell down, my heart races. Oh my gosh, is this really happening? Am I really hiring two male gigolos to please and tease me? Suddenly, I can’t wait.

  94

  Raider

  Ryan and I step up to the doorbell and I pause before my finger hits the chime.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  My buddy nods while remaining silent. After all, this isn’t our first appointment together. We’re tried and true professionals, although not quite in the way our customers seem to think.

  After all, we own Hot Nights NYC. It’s something that we dreamed up in our college room way back when, and I still remember the night inspiration struck.

  “There are so many women in New York,” Ryan said to me as we sat around one of the dorm lounges. His big form was sprawled on the couch as we idly shot the shit.

  “Yeah, I know, and that show Sex and the City has really done women a disservice. All the girls want to meet someone like Mr. Big who’s hot, handsome, and filthy rich. What they don’t get is that really rich dudes look like Mark Zuckerberg or Jeff Bezos. They’re short, puny, and usually, already taken.”

  “Yeah, I know,” mused Ryan. “It’s funny, isn’t it? An HBO show has created a fantasy for women in real life, and they actually think it’s achievable.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I interrupt. “There are definitely some women who can get the Mr. Big type. But they’re few and far between. Most women are going to end up with guys who are totally average. They’ll be five nine, one hundred and sixty pounds, with ho-hum physiques and boring jobs as accountants.”

  Ryan nodded and thought for a moment while squeezing a rubber ball in one large hand.

  “Yeah, but what if we catered to those fantasies? What if we started some service where women could go out on dates with these so-called alpha males? You think women would pay?”

  I thought about it for a moment.

  “You know, I think they would,” I said slowly. “Women in New York have one thing in common: they work. It’s hard to live in this city without a job because it’s just too expensive. And not enough of them have daddies who can support them full-time. So yeah, I think women in NYC have enough moolah so that they’d be able to hire a fantasy date for some short-term fun.”

  Lo and behold, Hot Nights NYC was born. At first, we didn’t mean for it to be a gigolo service. We thought we’d hire out handsome, attractive men to go out on dates with women. They’d squire older ladies to things like charity balls and museum fundraisers. But the thing is, the women always thought they were getting more than just companionship. Quite a few of our hunks reported that their clients had gotten handsy, and more than a few admitted they’d ended up putting out just to get these women off their backs.

  As a result, our business slowly morphed into providing gigolos. It’s underground and really dirty, but it pays well. We charge a thousand dollars for two hours of service, and five hundred of that goes to the man himself. The other five hundred comes straight to us, the owners of the outfit.

  But it’s hard managing a stable of gigolos. After all, these aren’t exactly the most hardworking, reliable guys. They’re handsome and like to work out, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to show up when you want them to. As a result, Ryan and I have our pictures on the website as well. We’re not twins per se, but we look enough alike that we add that marketing snippet to our profiles.

  Plus, there’s something else that Ryan and I like to do when we work together: we’re bisexual, and we enjoy men sometimes. It’s something that developed organically. At the beginning, we’d service a woman with no thought of each other. If anything, we were careful to never touch. But my friend is a handsome man, with a chiseled physique and a pole that would make a horse jealous. I admit that I ached to taste it myself, and a few years ago, I did just that. To my surprise, Ryan liked it and then admitted that he was interested in me as well. Since then, we’ve enjoyed quite a few women this way: focused on the female, but also touching and stroking the other guy too.

  But we don’t do very many jobs. The operator is trained to say that we’re in high demand, and to make it sound like there’s no space on our schedules. But the truth is that we just don’t go out that often. There’s no need. Our business has developed to the point where there are plenty of employees to do the heavy lifting, while Ryan and I just sit back and manage things from a distance.

  But the woman tonight was willing to pay a premium for our services. When Charlene told us that she’d paid three t
housand upfront, we were curious. Most women like to haggle and try to get a discount, but our new client didn’t hesitate. The three thousand has already been charged to her credit card, and we have a strict no-refunds policy.

  Now, here we are on her doorstep. To be clear, there’s no doorstep. Instead, we’re on the fifth floor of an old walk-up, and there’s a cheery doormat in front with a dog proclaiming “Wipe Your Feet” in a cartoon bubble from his mouth. The door itself looks like it’s been re-painted multiple times, and the walls are scuffed with harsh florescent lighting flickering ahead.

  “Yeah, I don’t think she can really afford this visit,” Ryan remarks to me under his breath.

  “Nope,” I agree softly. “But it’s not our place to judge how our clients use their money. If anything, it’s our place to convince them to spend more.”

  He nods, his glance skittering to a mouse that just made an appearance in the corner of the hall.

  “Still, the rent on this place can’t be more than two thousand per month. So what is she doing, hiring us for three thousand?”

  I shrug.

  “I have no idea, but it’s our job to please. Let the money do the talking,” I say.

  After all, I have a sinking suspicion about this visit. Most likely, Amy Lee is going to be a seventy-year old woman in a wheelchair who’s hoping to have some fun before her twilight years come. What she doesn’t realize is that her twilight years are already here, and that we’ll likely help her out of her wheelchair, and then settle in for a few kisses and mugs of hot cocoa. It’s a little sad, but then again, I don’t mind spending my time that way. I’ve always loved women, even those in their seventh decade.

  “I hope this works out,” Ryan mutters under his breath.

  “Shh,” I hush. “I hear footsteps.”

  Suddenly, the door swings open, and Ryan and I stare open-mouthed because the woman before us is no seventy year old crone. Instead, she’s a plush curvy girl who can’t be more than twenty-five. She’s wearing a mid-length plaid skirt with a red sweater on top, and she’s a vision with long, blonde hair and a plush pink pout. Holy shit, this is our new client? Suddenly, this visit has just become that much more titillating.