I retreat back to the changing room. I should feel excited at the prospect of a date with Guillermo, but I’m too tired to feel anything much at all other than pain. My back aches and my feet are killing me. I lean down and ease them out of my heels. As I try to straighten each foot, the instep cramps and the toe joints throb.
At least I can rest. I’ve given up on hustling after moving on from the pair masquerading as gay and approaching a seemingly nice, good-looking young guy in Vegas for Comic Con. When I asked him for a dance, he asked to take me outside.
“I’m a true gentleman,” he said, “not at all like those others.”
Bless him, he genuinely thought he could take me home. It’s a common misconception among those who haven’t a clue about how so-called gentlemen’s clubs function.
Guil
