I'm sitting at a wonky Formica table at a corner cafe in Orewa, trying to look relaxed. My husband is waiting in our car around the corner, primed to come running at the first hint of trouble. Having him stashed at the ready shrouds the interview with a certain Bondesque anticipation.
I realise that I am about to meet a professional, sincerely providing a service like anyone else. But clearly I am still prey to my conservative upbringing in a sleepy north Auckland suburb that boasted the sexual wattage of a weak lightbulb.
I found Marco on a website advertising mainly female sex workers, newzealandgirls. His profile promised he was approachable, but I wonder how closely he will match his online description. When he walks up to the table my nerves immediately settle. With his small black eyes and grey stubble tingeing the skin on his jowls, he's more cute teddy bear than Velcro-yanking stallion.
And then we get talking. In when he decided to give male escorting a try, he discussed it with his partner. He gave her, hypothetically at least, a choice: would she prefer him to sneak around behind her back, bedding other women?
Or would she prefer him to find legitimate clients and bring home some extra cash on top of his day job? The relationship survived. He says she has never doubted him. He has built his business around two types of client. The first is single but under-confident. She is often, in his words, "on the larger side", and is aged anywhere from 30 to plus. She is looking for a safe, gentle date who will not reject her.
