After a bit of pondering I've realized that what Cheryl wrote (and about four dozen of you echoed, thanks so much) is essentially true. My nominal title for the upcoming tour is "host," but what I really am is a man-whore.
Quite an epiphany to experience over one's morning oatmeal.
Mind you, though I may be dancing with the passengers, all of said dancing will be vertical. The only time I've ever been propositioned by a traveler on one of these tours, the suggestion came from one of the husbands. (And no, I didn't.)
On the whole, I think I make a most unlikely man-whore. I guess I can handle it for two weeks, but I'd never pursue it as a way of life.
Problem number one: I'm short. I think about the only sexual kink you can't find through Google (not that I've looked) is a fetish for men of low physical stature. We have our admirers, of course, but they aren't numerous enough to constitute a viable consumer base. I would have to be a niche market tottie, and I doubt a sensible business plan could rest upon that premise.
I also don't spend enough time in the gym. To be a proper studmuffin-for-hire, I'd have to do something about my abdominal muscles. Try as I might, I've never achieved real definition down there. Although at one point I was able to muster a strongly-worded recommendation with ample supporting documents.
And there's the question of flexibility. I am the Little Engine Who Can't unless I'm genuinely interested. I've known two "men of pleasure" and both were able to make the magic happen with whoever was paying the bill (male or female). One of them said he'd trained himself to snap into action at the sound of money changing hands. I wonder if that ever caused problems at the grocery store?
I am quite certain that when confronted with more esoteric requests I would be far too inclined to scream, "You want me to what?" thereby spoiling the ambience.
And logisitics. How does one deal with the logistics?
If I decided to do only out-calls, I'd need to get a car or at least enough cash to pay for taxi fares all over the city. It would not be sexy or good for trade to have to call a client and explain that I'd be over to play Where's Waldo just as soon as the number 36 bus showed up.
Working from home, on the other hand, would mean keeping the living room free of the snowdrift of sketch books, knitting supplies, reading material, and boots that never seems to melt away completely. And there would be laundry. Piles of it. One would need, I expect, rather more than the usual supply of linens, and the cost of having them monogrammed would be prohibitive.
I'm tired just thinking about it all. It sort of gives you a new appreciation for Fanny Hill, doesn't it? Such a demanding career and she still had time to write a book. I'm lucky if I can get the dishes done after a busy day at the office.
That's all for now. Back to packing. I'm trying to decide whether to take the leopard-print Speedo or the lycra trunks with the peekaboo pouch.