He used to work in a spa, the kind with dim lighting and cheap aromatherapy oils that smell like lavender with low self-esteem. He quit, kasi daw the hours were too long. Now he freelances and works full-time as a rider for the Red App — because nothing says dream boyfriend like a guy who can rub you down and then drop you off at your destination. And yes, it also helps that he looks feckin’ delicious in a helmet and ripped jeans (or, God help me, grey sweatpants).
The arrangement was supposed to be simple: he’s the rent boy, I’m the idiot funding his motorbike payments. Pero, of course, my dumbass heart got involved. Somewhere between his “firm pressure” and “service,” I started thinking maybe I wasn’t just another client. Maybe I was his favorite puppet — not just another coin-operated toy in his box.
Sometimes Ecstasy
He arrives smelling faintly of vape — is that vanilla? caramel? burnt sugar pretending to be sexy? He’s not ripped, but he could pass for an Instagram hottie if he cared enough to post. He has that glow-up vibe: like your classmate who was “meh” in high school and then one day… boom. The body’s average, a little soft under the shirt, but the face? Dude! That face should be paying rent in my brain. Matangos ang ilong, faint dimples (that could not really compete with Alden’s), morenong Pinoy with Indian features, a smile that does things to my organs, and a laugh that should come with a warning label.
When he walks in, he avoids eye contact, like he’s shy about the sin about to happen. We chat about traffic, the rain, the small talk that makes the air heavier. Then he starts. No giant muscles required: he knows how to weaponize a head tilt, a whisper, fingers that find knots like they’re on Waze. Every time I swear I won’t fall — famous last words. One shoulder rub later, my IQ drops by 50 points.
Look at My Hopes, Look at My Dreams
He’s straight. And yet when he drapes himself over me, it feels less like a transaction and more like a secret. Not porn-scene passion, but those subtle, hushed touches that make you think you’re special. That’s the real scam: the seconds you can’t invoice, the kind of tenderness that doesn’t belong in an itemized bill.
I know it’s performance. I repeat that like a mantra. But the line between “client service” and “is he low-key into me?” gets blurrier than my GCash balance after payday.
Words Mean So Little, and Money Less
Five-zero-zero-zero. Not a phone number. Not a love letter. Just the rate. I pay, he works, I float. After the hour, he bolts. GCash receipts pile up like little digital love notes that don’t love me back.
And then the rude awakening doesn’t arrive in person — it shows up on my feed. Of course I stalk. Who doesn’t? That’s practically what Facebook and Tiktok were built for. And there it is: the girl grinning like she just won the jackpot, her arms around him, captioned with a smug tone, like she found the one or some romantic crap.
My stomach drops, but not in a cinematic, violin-soundtrack kind of way. More like: oh right, he isn’t my boyfriend, he’s just good at his job. I wasn’t an exception.
You Love Me, I Pay Your Rent
Moral of the story? There isn’t one. You can rent the body, rent the moans, even rent the illusion. But you can’t GCash your way into someone’s forever.
Do I regret it? Not really. His hands and fingers are absurdly good. The company’s better than most Grindr hookups. The heartbreak? A side dish — spicy, unnecessary, but it adds flavour to the memory. Love may be priceless, but the reality, in the world of sex work, lust has a price tag. And sometimes, that price is exactly 5K for three hours plus a bruised heart and ego you can’t screenshot.