I requested a pretty boy gigolo.

As always, I expected nothing but perfection. Smooth skin, toned body, big… you know where this is going…

Anything less than that? Come on. I would quirk an eyebrow and scoff. My dresses were silks and satins, my robes lined with ostrich feathers, my rings malachite. I spend my days at the Racquet Club in Palm Springs, my nights at the Hollywood Victory Caravan. And every minute in between, there had to be some rough hands on my curves.

I have a husband, that much is true. But if anyone asks the million-dollar question, ‘Do you love him?’ All bets are off. I love his Oscars, his mansion, his wallet. Perhaps, once upon a time, I loved him before bouquets of Madonna Lilies — my favorite — turned into ‘I have a late-night meeting,’ before sweet nothings whispered into my hair became another woman’s lipstick stains on his collar. Or perhaps I loved him before he knocked me up, before he put a ring on my finger and wiped my maiden name from existence.

The woman the world once adored on the silver screen suddenly became Mrs. Amberg. And when I finally opened my eyes, I had become the other woman in my own marriage.

So yes. Between bottles of Glenlivet, curl clips, and velvet garter belts, I drowned myself in cologne and muscles. Such pretty young things, supple lips that kissed with no questions asked.

Ernie knew me well enough not to snitch. He would never tell Ace that I had been soliciting male escorts for years. He would always send the handsomest face to my hotel room — because the God I had stopped praying to decades ago knows — I could afford it.

I exited my 1943 Porsche convertible with dramatic flair, tossed the keys to the valet with a flick of my wrist. The sound of my heels against marble echoing through the hotel lobby. Hips swaying, hair bouncing. This was routine, has been for as long as I could remember.

I was ready for an afternoon of passion, of forgetting reality, of indulgence and sin. So when I heard a knock at the door, my lips twitched upward, my hand stilled against that Swarovski crystal martini glass, plump olives bobbling slightly in the clear liquid.

“Come in,” My voice was gin-laced, slightly hoarse with tobacco or lust — nobody knows which.

And then you stepped in.

I almost dropped my drink altogether. Your soft curves, your luscious hair cascading over your shoulders, your delicate features and… femininity…

“What the…” I choked out. When was the last time I was this caught off guard? Possibly the day I found out sleazy Ace had been taking his secretary in my marital bed. “You’re a girl.”

“I didn’t… I never called for a girl…” I could hear the contempt in my own voice. What a disappointment.