“What do you have, some gum?” I asked her.

“No, a peppermint,” she answered. “You want one?”

I shook my head and answered, “Water. I feel dried out.”

She hopped up and got me a glass of water. I took a few sips of it and laid back again. Victoria leaned over and sucked lightly on my nipples with her peppermint tongue and lips.

I smiled and asked her, “I guess I won’t get a chance to sleep tonight, will I?”

She chuckled but didn’t answer me. Then she commented, “I’ve been waiting all week for this.”

I grinned. I guess Victoria planned to get all of what she had waited for.

The Mansion

WITH THE TWO-HOUR time difference from Chicago to L.A., I made it out to LAX international airport before noon and was tired as hell. Victoria had worked me through half the night. I think I bust around five nuts in less than twelve hours. I didn’t know I was still capable of doing that in my older years. But that was what the girl wanted, so when everything was said and done, she walked away satisfied and wide open for more.

Out in L.A., I had a photo shoot in Santa Monica. Some old industry friends of mine had called me out there to shoot some restaurant scenes as a waiter at a place called the Pacific Grille, and for good money, too. To tell you the truth, though, I couldn’t understand that one. I figured there had to be tons of gorgeous guys out in L.A. to pose as waiters at a much cheaper price. But sometimes old relationships were willing to pay your bills. It was a scratch your back now, scratch my back later kind of deal. And why would I decline or complain about a paid-for trip to L.A.?

I made it to the baggage claim area where I was supposed to meet my escort, who was to take me to the hotel and to my destinations. I would be out in L.A. for just the weekend, with a return flight to Atlanta on Monday morning.

“Hey, Terrance,” a young white guy walked up and greeted me. He was a blond kid in his early twenties, wearing a turquoise T-shirt, blue jeans, and Nikes. He reminded me of the legendary James Dean. He just had that superstar look about him.

I told him, “You don’t look like an escort to me, man. Where’s the old guys and old ladies?”

He smiled and extended his hand for a shake. “There’re a lot of different kinds of escorts, you know.”

“Yeah, and you must be the other kind. What do you play, a bad-boy actor to the old, rich women out here?” I teased him.

I had just finished role-playing with Victoria the night before, so the idea wasn’t far-fetched at all to me.

He said, “I see you’re a fast thinker. That’s what the boss said about you.”

The boss he was referring to was Marcus Vissel, an old, established photographer who had traded in his camera for a bigger piece of the pie, agency contracts. Even though I declined to sign with the Vissel Model Agency, Marcus continued to be loyal to me. I had been one of the first African-American males he had shot in the early nineties to establish a prosperous and ongoing career. In fact, I was one of the first models he had shopped for new business. I just refused to play the exclusivity game. Those agency contracts were like marriages, and the divorces were just as tragic. Some agencies were able to make and break careers, and I didn’t want anyone controlling my life that strongly.