Claudio was tall and lanky, almost too thin for comfort. But he had a reasonably handsome face with a cute mustache that could almost remind you of a slightly Mediterranean Clark Gable if you didn’t look too closely and facial hair underneath a hooked nose was your thing.

It wasn’t Sophie’s. But then, men in general weren’t. Her thing, I mean. She’d slept with enough of them to write a brick of a memoir if only they’d been memorable. This fellow, rocking mom jeans and polo shirt, certainly was though.

He told her he worked in retail, at a big computer store. He wouldn’t tell her which one. Not that it mattered. She could care less. He seemed smart enough, but not particularly successful in life, beyond covering the basics. By that I mean that he was clean and reasonably tidy. A clean body was always so pleasant.

He was terribly gauche and awkward. Today he’d probably be diagnosed as being on the spectrum. But back in the day what most people knew of autism was what Dustin Hoffman showed them in Rain Main, and Claudio was no brilliant math wiz.

But boy, was he sweet. He spoke softly, like he didn’t believe he was entitled to walk in the door. He gave her his money before taking his shoes off, perhaps worried she’d turn him away if he didn’t. “How much do you charge for your services?” he’d asked on the phone yesterday, like she was an accountant or something.

She worried for a minute he might be an undercover agent. Why else would he be so polite and considerate? Not that she’d noticed or heard of any in that neighborhood, but you never really knew, did you.

Her doubts evaporated when she took his pants off. She’d never seen anything like it. His erect penis was crooked in a most unusual way. She’d seen all kinds of shapes in her life, but this was special. Instead of veering right or left, this boner went straight down.

Yes, I mean down towards his crotch instead of up towards his belly button. I swear I’m not making this up. She put her hand on it and tugged towards the ceiling, but all she got was a painful wince from the less than proud owner whose cheeks were by that point a violent shade of purple.

“Lie down,” she whispered, hoping that once on his back things would return to a more or less normal position. Fat chance. The misguided wiener was stubbornly aiming for the soft spot between his legs, as though it wanted to hide there. Like it was ashamed of itself.

Sophie prided herself on being a flexible kind of sex worker, but this was pushing her limits. There was no way she could make their respective anatomies fit. His facial coloration stopped her from asking whether he was doing it on purpose.

“I don’t mean to make you feel bad about this,” she said finally, “but is there anything I can do to help you enjoy your time here?”

She thought he might start crying. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know anybody with this problem. All I want is to have sex like a normal person.” He looked at her and she could see years of anguish rising up behind his eyes. “Can you help me?”

At that moment, there was nothing in the world she wanted to do more than that. Just goes to show sex workers so do have a heart. His candour and openness touched her deeply.

She smiled as she reached for his wrongly bent member. “OW!” he yelped when she tried again to lift it.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “OK, let me try to help you. What do you normally do with girls?”

He looked at her the same way they all did when they didn’t want to admit it. At least in this way, he was very normal indeed.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him for a minute. “It’s OK, don’t worry about it. I understand. And you’re not my first virgin by any stretch of the imagination. Just relax and let me figure it out, alright?”

He breathed in the snot that was threatening to fall into her hair and nodded his grateful assent.

They say the best ideas are borne out of desperation, and right now Sophie agreed. She reached for a condom (regular, textured, lubed) and started stroking his directionally-challenged penis to distract him from the sound of the package ripping. It was a trick as old as the oldest profession itself, even though condoms were a recent innovation — and a welcome one at that, as far as she was concerned. But she would have bet a lot of money all filles de joie before her going back to Mary Magdalene knew exactly how to redirect a fellow’s attention away from anything unpleasant back to his crotch in no time flat. But how many had succeeded in redirecting the crotch itself, she wondered.

Anyway, she unrolled the thing and slipped it on. Slowly, not like a pair of surgical gloves. She knew taking her time with this part of the proceedings meant less time getting pounded without talent, and she was keen on that. Claudio was already sighing, better colors returning to his face. So far so good.

She did the only thing she could think of. Knowing he was a virgin meant she would have to do the thrusting if she wanted him to have a good time. Missionary was out. So was the doggie. She could easily sit on top of him except for the bent-the-wrong-way part. So she turned around, put her face into his knees, kept her ass down, reached out and inserted him. Contact was made, and thanks to her relative flexibility it was kept, too. She did a gentle version of the backward cowboy, trying to ignore the feeling that someone was hammering her bladder.

“OOOOHH!!!” he erupted as he came, after a mercifully short time. “Wowwwww....” She worried for a moment that he might have passed out, like the guy in high school she played with on her friend’s parents’ bed the weekend they were in Plattsburgh. There was a little drool on Claudio’s face, slowly dripping down towards her sheets, the only thing moving on his face. He was pale now.

“Hey,” she breathed. “You OK?”

He grabbed his temples in response. “It feels like my eyes are being pulled back into my head. Is this normal?”

“Yes, I believe it is.” It would have been bad form to laugh.