Modelo Gigolo

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After I roamed the streets debating on whether to head home or not, the ping interrupted my music. The inner thoughts screeched to a halt, I jabbed my phone with my index finger.

I knew the neighborhood. It was a nice one, but it was eighteen minutes away. I turned up the music and plowed through the dark streets.

The customer called and confirmed that I had the address and that I was coming. I figured it must be his first time using it, because all that info up in the app. I assured Mr. Confirmation that I was on the case and that I would be there shortly.

When I pulled into the GPS’d marked driveway, I rolled both front windows down and a big guy emerged from the shadows with half a twelve pack of Modelo tucked under his right arm.

“Get me the hell out of here and away from that crazy woman,” he said.

“Sure, I can do that for you.”

He slammed the door shut and we were off.

“That woman is out of her fucking mind,” he muttered.

I didn’t say anything for a little while. I was just focused on getting the big guy out of my car and at the end of that trip.

“You want me to move the seat up, do you need more leg room?” I asked.

“I’m good.”

Big boy mumbled to himself about the crazy bitch he encountered back there, and for some reason, I felt the need to open my stupid mouth.

“So how’s your night going, uh, other than that back there?” I trailed off. I already regretted the words after they fell out of my mouth. I didn’t want to get up in his business anymore than he probably wanted to narrate it.

“Oh, you know, just working these females.”

Again, I didn’t respond.

What he said bounced around inside my head. I was tired, so maybe I didn’t hear him right. Did he say, just working, and then there was pause and he said these females.

My eyes shifted up to my mirror, but I couldn’t really see him in the dark back seat. Was I transporting another sex worker, or some sort of gigolo? I didn’t care, but my tired mind ran with it tripping me out.

He never spoke again until I pulled up to the address marked on my phone. The music was turned down real low and all I could hear was his heavy breathing. It sounded like he had just walked up fifty-seven flights of stairs or boned fifty-seven chicks.

I tried not to judge the big guy in the back seat, but if it wasn’t from laying pipe, it was just sad. He was just sitting there as he goofed off on his phone waiting for me to take him to the next woman he’s supposed to lay the dong down on.

It was just his breathing from point A to point B.

When we arrived, the light came on when he opened the door, and I looked back at him and realized he was taller and heavier than I thought. I had no idea how the hell he fit in my backseat. It took him a little bit to get out dragging his beer with him.

“Thanks,” big foot said before he slammed the door shut.

The next morning, my back seat looked like it had big underwear racing stripes on the middle seat. It didn’t smell, and it wasn’t hard to clean, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of sex that big ass freak was having.

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