Me and My Manny Read Online Free PDF Page A

I rid my mind of visions of her tossing him in her car and taking off on a wild cross-country spree, my own wheels began spinning.
    “Tell you what,” I said. “For twenty bucks, you can borrow him for, oh, up to two hours. I’ll just excuse myself, fold the laundry, and take a shower.”
    Lisa rooted through her skirt pockets and handed me a twenty. This time, accepting money for the use of Wolf should have made me feel like a pimp, but it didn’t. On the contrary, I’d begun to realize that I had stumbled upon a promising new financial endeavor. I fancied myself a fledgling entrepreneur in something remotely akin to the sex industry. Not for a moment did I anticipate operating anything like a Nevada-style bordello staffed by dummies. Those desert dives with their tacky western décor couldn’t hold a candle to what I had in mind. My operation wasn’t only legal in every state; it was also exceptional—the ultimate in fantasy. I’d start out small, right here in the Pacific Northwest. I’d run it like a doll shop. A client comes in, chooses her own manny, and spends quality time alone with him. No questions asked.
    My head filling with the idea that asexuality sells, I returned to the kitchen and toyed with a few names appropriate to my new establishment. Judy’s Joint. Hmmm, catchy but squalid. Wolfgang’s Woodies? Too suggestive and very misleading. For the time being, I settled on The Manny Ranch.
    While Lisa appropriated Wolf, I worked out the pros and cons of my new business plan. Forget the problems connected with infidelity, none of it can happen. Forget the difficulties linked to sexually transmitted diseases, none of it ought to happen.
    My business acumen peaking, I grabbed a pad and pencil and began scribbling notes. Let’s see. Wolf cost what? Six hundred bucks plus a few extras. Rented out about four hours a day—for starters, I figured I’d work him only part-time—at twenty bucks a stint…that’s eighty a day times five days a week…that’s—Whoopee! In less than a year, I could buy enough mannys to staff an entire brothel and quit pretending to look for a day job.
    I began trying on the managerial titles appropriate to my new enterprise. The word madam didn’t fit me any more than the word pimp had. I could no more envision myself donning a feathered headdress and waving a jeweled cigarette holder than I could see myself be-bopping to hip-hop behind the fur-covered steering wheel of a purple pimpmobile. I was about to launch a career in the world’s newest, not its oldest, profession. I therefore had to come up with a more sophisticated name. Rather than leave it TBD, to be determined, I settled for CEO— that’s chief executive officer for the uninitiated.
    I then ran my mind over some of the derogatory terms often applied to the employees of customary houses of ill repute. Wolfgang might be something of a no-account, but never could I think of him as a hooker, a floozy, or a slut. In his new position, he would at the outset be the chief moneymaker. So I elected him CFO, or chief financial officer.
    Moving right along, I mulled over a list of the pejorative labels for customers of traditional establishments. My venture was to be strictly on the up and up. In lieu of calling my female clients johns, I preferred to think of them as patrons. Sexual fantasy is, after all, more of an art form than an activity.
    Standing only a few yards from where the ever-dopey, but now somehow debonair, Wolf was plying his trade, I began to see him in a whole new light. He wasn’t only an unassuming minimalist; he was an investment. Nothing but good could come from our mutually rewarding relationship. And it was clear to me why.
    Wolfgang had the Midas touch, something that appealed to the gold digger in me. Wolf was more than an oversized version of Barbie’s boyfriend Ken. He was the stuff of fairy tales with a well-buffed patina.
    I eyed Wolf’s athletic outfit atop the folded clothes in the