Собчак наш президент

The first person I called was Jermaine, a male model I took on holiday and fucked for a week in St. Tropez a few years back.

"Hannah!" He had picked up the phone and was clearly delighted to hear from me and keen on the idea of partying, but when I gave him the date of the ball: "Oh, damn, baby, I'd love to so much, but I have plans that night."

It was the same story with Ewan, the race-car driver. He was obliged to attend his sponsor's annual party that evening. Hey, from a corporate point of view, I totally understood, so we hung up having made plans to meet (i.e., fuck) in the New Year. While the thought of getting reacquainted with Ewan's gorgeous dick in January was enough to warm me in the Christmas chill, I still didn't have a suitor for the party. One by one, all the boys in my little black book had prior engagements-well, it was mid-December. I cursed myself for leaving things until the last minute. Normally I'm very well organized.

I called Jane, my colleague and best friend, to see if she could hook me up with anyone. I've never known her to be without a date-and her companions are the only men who are more attractive than the ones I bring along. I hoped I could rely on her to do the sisterly thing. "What? At this time of year?" she scoffed. "You've got to be joking. Everyone has too many plans as it is!"

"I know. It's fucked up. What am I going to do?" I asked her.

"Same thing I always do," said Jane. "Call Adonis."

"Who?" I said, not sure I'd heard her right.

And then my best friend, about whom I thought I knew everything, confessed that for years she'd been using a high-class male escort service. As she described the agency, it became clear that it was the best-kept secret among the richest women in the city. The escorts on its books, mainly models and actors, were intelligent, very attractive, well-bred young men charging hundreds of dollars an hour for the pleasure of their company. And, as Jane pointed out, unlike a real date, they were doing it professionally and so delivered to a standard: no risk that they'd get drunk and embarrass you, bore you to tears, or get aggressive on the doorstep about "coming in for coffee."

I tried to recall the last few men I'd seen with my friend. They had, without exception, been charming, witty, and devastatingly handsome. No way would I ever have guessed that they were paid escorts. I was impressed. And Jane-beautiful, rich, and glamorous-was hardly the desperate type. I wrote down the telephone number and website she gave me.

After I hung up the phone, I fixed myself a mar tini and gave the matter some serious thought. I was used to spending my money on the best of everything in life. I've paid big money for ski instructors, top-notch doctors, celebrity hairstylists… even my housecleaner costs me a small fortune (but well worth the expense). So why should the service of good-quality male company be any different?

Out of curiosity, I looked at the website and signed in using the password that Jane had given me. The navy-and-gold design was sleek and professional, and I could choose my escort by any category I wanted: location, race, age, IQ, height, even educational background. I didn't know where to start, so I decided to browse the guys based in New York. There were about fifty of them to choose from, and each had provided a head-and-shoulders photograph as well as a full-length picture in a suit and-my personal favorite-a shot in his underwear. Each boasted an impressive CV. I'd been expecting a parade of male bimbos, but there were a wide variety of guys, from former professional football players to part-time diving instructors and even a couple of university professors.

It was like a grown-up girl's version of the best toy shop in the world. I scrolled through page after page checking out images of sexy guys-no wonder the agency called itself Adonis. I looked at the rates. Okay, $1,000 an hour was pretty steep, but I was blowing a grand on my dress, and with the bonus I'd just received, I could afford it.