For some reason, people tend to look at you funny when you mention that you’ve paid for sex. I mean, really. It was one time. Even Hugh Grant did that, and he’s very funny.
Sure I could justify it as creating source material for a blog idea four years into the future when I’ve run out of other ideas. But that’s not true. He was just hot. Really European supermodel hot.
When I first moved into my house, I was on a mission to live the hedonistic post-divorce life I’d dreamed of. Drinking wine for breakfast. Yoga in the nude. Splurging on gelato instead of low fat ice cream. I wanted to be a hardcore cougar, seeking out one night stands with young studs I’d never have to call again.
My first (and only) winner was a college student from Serbia. He was 24, while I was a youthful looking 38. Also in his favor was that he was a 6’4” basketball player with a profile showing him shirtless in a hottub. Seeing that my favorite tennis player was the Serb Novak Djokovic, I was reminded that this guy was like Novak’s hotter younger brother, Marko. Like this, without the camel:
At one point in my life–I think around the time I was interning at the United Nations–I had illusions of joining the Foreign Service. Or the CIA. I thought international relations would be a good career move, until my dreams were crushed to discover that the odds of getting stationed in Scandinavia were virtually non-existent. With my luck I’d end up in Nicaragua or somewhere really hot, buggy and with hailstorms of bullets.
Hot Serb Boy didn’t drive, and I picked him up from a clandestine location away from his dorm so it didn’t like he was going out with his mom on a Friday night. For a brief moment I had a flashback to my chickenpox sex story when I snuck into the football camp. It was exhilarating with a bonus accent on the side. It had been a long time since I did anything so spontaneous, except 20 years later I wasn’t as confident as in my reckless college days.
He didn’t drink, being a hot athlete with -08% body fat. I drank for him, because nothing makes a woman with stretch marks and cellulite hotter than sucking down 3 glasses of wine in an hour. After a lame hour of my foreplay, involving my dog Inga licking his face and assuring me he was as delicious as I imagined, and watching a Novak Djokovic tennis match on the DVR to assure him I really, really loved Serbia. He tried teaching me a few phrases in Serbian, which is a really fucking hard language to learn. I have weak language skills to begin with, despite my UN experience and Foreign Service delusions. After 4 years of high school French my mouth still couldn’t roll my Rs. There are no rolling Rs in Serbian, but Hot Serb Boy finally called me out on my ridiculousness and kissed me. I think it was to stop me from butchering his language.
We talked a little about Serbia, and how much he missed his family but that there wasn’t much opportunity there for him. His mother’s dream was for him to come to America and get an education and a good job. She couldn’t afford to send him money. She made as much money in one month as I made in a day, even though I was a grossly underpaid associate attorney. Suddenly I was connecting the dots. My charming youngish 38 year old face and winning smile were not why he was there. I wasn’t sure what to do, but being a lawyer I was debating whether this legally constituted prostitution.
He could clearly see my defenses going up. I didn’t give him credit for being a Dirty Serb, but he clearly knew my kryptonite. He took off his shirt. I won’t lie. He had the most lickable abs I have ever seen. I will never see abs like that in my bedroom again. Abs with an accent. Abs Channing Tatum would be envious of, because Channing Tatum isn’t 6’4’ and doesn’t have an olivey Mediterranean tan. Speaking of olives, I wanted to pour olive oil all over those abs and play Twister. Even Inga looked at me like “What the fuck are you waiting for, Mom?” I raced him up the stairs at this point, to make sure the lights were off.
But, in a true test of my international relations, Hot Serb Boy sought to negotiate the best deal. As he started to seductively undress me, he started. Could I help him with some spending money? Like $250. I negotiated him down from $250. For $250 I’d want sex with an orgasm, a back massage, 4 bottles of expensive French wine (not boxed) and some cannolis. I don’t know what good desserts they have in Serbia. Then he slapped at my stomach to see if it jiggled like a bowl full of jelly. (It did. Fuck off.) For that I negotiated down to $150, even though I am still self-conscious as a result. I should have gone down to $100. But for $150 I got the hot Serb special. Which involved a lot of ass smacking, and a split lip from being bitten. Serbs apparently like it rough. Hot Serb Boy ruined my theory of foreign sex being slow and sexy. An unexpected plus is that I can attest to the quality of IKEA beds, which I’m sure in all their in-store quality control tests showing them rocking back and forth nonstop for their 10 year warranty never anticipated Serbian sex.
He also mentioned how he didn’t have a TV, and I happened to have a couple of old ones and a DVD player. A few days later I brought that to the secret rendezvous meeting place away from the security guard booth, whilst wearing Jackie O sunglasses and a head scarf. WWMRD? (What Would Mrs. Robinson Do?)
$150 and an old TV and DVD player was a bargain. Hot Serb abs don’t come around every day. I can sleep easily knowing that I’m a humanitarian of the highest order. If I can donate that to a dog rescue or Bernie Sanders, I can donate it to a Serbian college student to help him find a better life.