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he was a marketing manager or somesuch by day, escort to older rich women by night. he hardly needed the money, but seemed to enjoy the side hustle as a chance to hone the craft. in me, he found no judgment, just curiosity piqued. it's nice to be able to talk shop.
we were two craftsmen at the top of our trade, two athletes playing a round for fun. it was a game without the usual self-consciousness, or any need to be particularly considerate. no hard lines needed to be drawn, no safewords mentioned, because the rules were obvious: do everything in your power to please the other., as much as you can. nothing more, nothing less. failing to read a signal meant falling behind, our standing as a professional wavering, pride in our craft at stake. if you've never been paid, it's hard to understand: the challenge is to escape the transactional, and a coupon-clipping lover is intolerable when fucking for recreation. are you client or contender?
instead: an infinite gift with no takers. permanent one-upmanship between rivals. the love of the game. i came hard and melted into the floor, vowing through muddled warmth to get him back even better. we were both sober but seeing sparkles at the edges of our vision. (he scored four more points before the match ended a sweaty draw.)
for a few moments, lovers in vocation: