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I waved goodbye to my cousin's friends and grabbed my date's hand. And though I didn't look back, I knew everyone watched us go. Now, a week later, I find myself missing the of the man more than I miss the actual man.
Y'know, those little things -- calling me "babe," eating off my plate.
“We've had crushes on each other forever, but he won't make a move.”“Got it,” he said.
He began massaging my neck and calling me “babe” in an obnoxiously loud voice. I didn't even have to look at my cousin's friend to feel his jealousy; I felt it like a heat wave.
So Rent A Gent sent me my runner-up, accommodating my demands quite nicely: His name was Alec.
He was a Mormon from Utah, and he'd come to New York to be a model.
I'll never know if he was genuinely a good guy -- or just a great actor -- but it was still nice to be treated like a lady.
So, on my own volition, I dropped 0 on a male escort from Rent A Gent. My first choice was a hot, brown-haired guy with a man bun, but he was unavailable.
Was it nice having a pretend boyfriend for the night?
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I scanned the room in search of clues that might have threatened my credibility: a snicker here, maybe a weird stare there. And then I realized something: My plan was actually working. He liked to surf, and he disliked TV, calling it "toxic." He was a gentleman in every sense of the word (maybe because I was paying him to be).
He helped me with my coat and placed his hand on my leg every so often.