Hamilton Dillon adjusted his knit tie in the mirror one last time before he left home to meet an important client. His navy blue Todd Snyder suit fit him as well as its twin had fit Ryan Gosling when he wore it to the Golden Globes, and its pinstripes were just as flattering to his strong, lean frame.

He checked his skin for any flaws or creases, brushed non-existent dust off his shoulders, and pushed a stray lock of his perfect hair back into place. When he knew he was ready, he winked at himself in the mirror and topped his look off with a fedora from JJ Hat Center. A hat wasn’t something that just any man could pull off, never mind a fedora, but Hamilton? He owned it.

The car service was waiting for him downstairs, ready to whisk him to the Carlyle, where he’d meet his client in Bemelmans Bar. Named after the creator of the charming Madeline books, the bar was one of those establishments where it’s difficult to look bad – the lighting was just that good, and the warm golds and browns of the décor put even the most nervous client at ease.

The staff nodded as he sailed through the lobby, the doorman greeting him by name, the concierge looking up briefly from her desk to nod at him, the bartender giving him a discreet smile.

It wasn’t just the hat, the suit, the astonishing good looks, but his presence. A sense… no, the knowledge, that he belonged here, a projected vibration that everyone could pick up on.

Hamilton’s client was seated at the end-of-a-corner banquette, a spot Hamilton had come to associate with the “startled hare” sort of man, as it allowed for a fast escape if it was, you know, just too much at the last minute. Which was why Hamilton now took deposits before meeting new clients. If they wanted to bolt after putting down five bills in advance, that was fine with him.

He’d called himself “George” on the phone (and Hamilton didn’t doubt it was his real name, since George wasn’t the sort of fake name that you make up). He had wide eyes and a nervous smile on his ample face, made more ample by his high hairline, if hairline it could still be called. As he stood up to greet Hamilton and shake his hand vigorously, his chins wiggled their own hello. His own gray suit was, to Hamilton’s eye, exactly what was expected by the peers and superiors of a middle manager of a Midwestern farm equipment combine – sober, cheap, practical.

Hamilton focused on the eyes. Someone had taught him long ago that if you were with someone who (to say it discreetly) wasn’t your type, the way to do the job was to concentrate on the one thing about that person you found attractive. Whether it was his voice, or his smile, it didn’t matter. And George had clear, astonishingly bright blue eyes undimmed by age or alcohol – he might even have been a catch, in his time.

“George, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Hamilton said in his warm, smooth voice.

“Oh, and you too, Hamilton. You’re… Oh you hear that all the time, right? That you really do look just like your pictures.”

Hamilton smiled generously. “Thank you, it’s always nice to hear it.”

It was typical in this line of work to fudge online, not just your age but your appearance, hoping that even if the head shots were… a bit outdated, that the client would decide when you arrived that a bird in the hand et cetera. Hamilton kept his shots fresh, and made sure to note that in his profile. Even if his looks hadn’t wilted in the least since he’d started this job three years ago, he knew that his regulars, as well as prospective lookie-loos, wanted new fantasy material on a steady basis.

“Club soda, please,” Hamilton told the waiter. “And my friend here will have…”

“Oh, umm, just a ginger ale.”

The waiter knew Hamilton’s drink without asking, but to have it appear unasked for would remind the client that, well, Hamilton was here often enough for waiters to know his “on the job” drink. And that would spoil the magic, the pretense that he was here just for you, had never been here for anyone but you.

They made small talk, as George looked at his watch nervously.

Hamilton read his mind. “We’ve got plenty of time before the curtain, but if you like, we can go now.”

George exhaled, relieved. “Oh, yes, please. I just… New York, you know, the traffic, you never know when all the cabs will just disappear.”

“True, a drop of rain and poof, they’re all gone. Shall we?”

* * *

Wicked was definitely Hamilton's favorite, even after however many times he had already seen it. He was very good at changing the minds of out of town clients who wanted to take him to Hamilton, even though it was his namesake. He would have loved to have seen again, but it was always sold out a year in advance.

What George wanted, Hamilton knew, was to spend more time sitting next to Hamilton in the cramped confines of the Gershwin Theatre. At first, he kept his arm cautiously folded in his lap. Then at some point during the first act, he pressed it against Hamilton’s on the arm rest, then, with Hamilton’s encouragement, George’s hand came to rest on Hamilton’s chiseled thigh.

Fortunately for George, the spectacle of Wicked on stage was diverting enough that George’s fast breaths and the sheen of sweat on his face went undetected by anyone around them.

The thigh move was a useful trick he employed when he wanted clients to ask to skip dinner, and go straight back to their hotel room for the rest of the evening’s entertainment. And tonight it worked like a charm on George.

Little time was wasted at the hotel, as Hamilton let George undress him, piece by piece, faster and faster, even though George had clearly wanted to make the experience last. When George got to Hamilton’s Mack Weldon men’s trunk briefs, he finally let out a little moan.

Hamilton had selected the Mack Weldons carefully. They had the look, though upgraded in color and style and fabric, of the old Fruit of the Loom y-fronts that men like George had grown up with. They would always associate them with every boy in every locker room whose crotches had, achingly unavailable, waggled in their faces. And now, at last, at last, for a mere two thousand dollars, what was behind all those tighty-whities was finally here for the taking.

George had pulled the elastic waist band down ever so slowly, and when Hamilton’s respectably large cock fell out over the band, the moan became a groan, and he looked up from his knees at his new god, who smiled at him like the sun, encouragingly…