how naïve. Most, if not all, of my friends had already “known the touch of a woman,” as only virgins call it, and I would have considered it a personal failure (one to add to my formidable collection) if I was unable to take the “I” out of “virgin” before my youth-shedding. The notion of hiring an escort was not new to me. I’d thought about it, toyed with the idea, mulled it around calculatingly. I had even gone as far as to try it once, when times were thin, and frustration thick. My only previous dalliance with an escort service taught me the hard way to never order by phone, and always demand a picture. That former, disastrous encounter left me with balls as blue as my wallet was light. Consequently I turned to the internet as my sexual sensei this time around, guiding me through the path towards carnal enlightenment. I went spelunking headlong into the murky depths of the internet’s underbelly in search of a fitting girl. She had to be attractive, she had to be compatible, and more importantly, she had to be accessible; I would’ve felt impossibly self-conscious and performance-affectingly nervous if she was too much out of my league—though a perusal of the offerings in my area showed that wouldn’t be a problem.