After the initial applause died down, he decided that his newest and best possible goal was to become a Pro Bono Gigolo. 
Promotion of the greater good through carnal generosity, free of charge outside of the most meager living expenses.
It stood to reason that he would be the best at everything.

He hid his cocksure smirk with a tip of the imaginary hat and a wink.  Comical click of thumb and index finger, a snap, a ridiculous dance beforehand, his skunk dance. 

His chest was at eye level. His voice had a resonant tone.  It hummed the floorboards of his tiny apartment, vibrating bare soles. He had been bequeathed by genetics a physique to match his mastery of the diddle fiddle, the thrust figure eight imagination station, all that. Physical perfection arose through thorough exercise.

They pruned his fingers.

He made the come-hither motion and mouthed out his vowels for them.

There were notches in the headboard, the dents in the walls flaked. Toes curled, reached skyward.

His neighbors, a crotchety Greek couple, banged on their wall in the height of the action.

When that didn’t work, they blasted their television to drown out the steady metronome of his work, his static click clack squeaky bed-frame tempo that older clients at least appreciated the consistency of.

His customers came and then they came.  Stress relief after a hard day at whatever anonymous office they slumped there from, whatever mansion they grew restless in.

Proud prize twitching slimy, after the fact.

He went for hours, if need be.  At their command, helping them lose control. The chorus sang sore for hours afterwards. He detached his spirit halfway through and floated above the scene.

This quasiself took notes on the palm of his ghost hand with a Sharpie, offered him advice with imaginary post-its on various parts.

Lick here.
Stroke here like a butterfly, here like a hummingbird.
Pinch, flick, flip.
Slow down.
Speed up.
Rotate.

Always returning to that one touch, the 'not-quite', tracing of the patches of light fuzz covering the body. His touch lighter than blind men reading Braille.

A connect-the-dots with moles, a tongue over the stretch marks and scars and bruises and sore spots, ingrown hairs, chapped lips, and pimples.  Ankles and angles.  Beauty in all feminine forms.  He lingered on caesarian scars, the smalls of backs, the napes of necks, and his efforts were met with grateful murmurs.

A foot rub that capitalizes on a pressure point. Good measure.  In all actions, eternity.

Though he clearly explained beforehand that his services were free of charge, afterward the wealthier ones would wad up Benjamins and pelt him with them as he hid in the corner of the twisted bed.

Recovering, a shuddering gasping mess in the fetal position, after.

They drained him and vice versa.  They floated home, soles still tingling in too-tight shoes.

Hours turned into days and blurred into weeks, and every time he checked his watch, another Juno, a patron of his Art, slinked through the door. Another Aphrodite to imprint a sweat-stain into the mattress.

Something uncomplicated was always worn to the event. Snap-buttons and skirts, something easily torn, pushed to one side, or slid out of.

This was his thesis.  This was testified restitution for thousands of years of unchecked Patriarchy and all that. Utter servitude through hysterical paroxysm.

Pleasure as power to the people or something. 

It was all he had to offer them, and they kept him afloat, kept him on a string.

Most described husbands and live-ins as bumbling faithless men, uncertain as to the anatomy of a flower. He was amazed at the secrets he had discovered after only a half-hour of intense study with any one of his sponsors. Pistil comprised of stigma stylus and ovary. The petal, the sepal, the ovule. Here, the hum of a bumblebee with no sting.  Drooling along stamen consisting of anther and filament, and this is what you kiss like your dying, this is what you kiss like you’re a crazy person, and this is what you kiss as if it’s your first prom, and it’s the eighties, and you’re slow dancing to “Every Rose has its Thorn.”

The Gigolo coughed. Hacked. Spit out a pubic hair lodged in his throat. Observed a new pair of frilly some things dangling from his bedpost, another for the pile in the closet.

His closet had thrown up all the clothes inside it at some point.  Double-dose of Ipecac.

The floor was littered with pillows and sheets and splatters, bent tubes of lube and the spent shell casings of a discharged gun, stowed away now with the safety on.

He checked the fridge, wiped some unidentified fluid off on a towel already stiff with them.

He gulped water and watched the brick wall outside his one window dim blue grey as the sun set. The wall always showed him the state of affairs outside. Yellow in the summer.  Green during a tornado. Red brightening into orange clouding into blue fading into indigo shuddering into violet.

He stretched out on his sheets. Brushed the wadded-up money onto the floor, a pile forming again already.

The musk of the bed, unsettled once more, filled the room.

He checked the dents in the wall again, and of course he wasn't getting his deposit back. The landlord hated him, anyway.

Five nights a week the noise complaints on all sides of his closet-sized musky ceiling stained awful little apartment.  Tomorrow one of them would bring him more food and supplies, and afterwards, he’d go up to the roof and work on his tan.

Drifting to sleep, he replayed all the keepers in the fondest of dreams. That useless longing, the collision, the penetrating mind, swapping an essence back and forth, something vital he had forgotten the name of, or perhaps avoided remembering altogether.