All I had was my looks and my charm, and at thirty, I knew I was fast approaching the day my bulging biceps and piercing green-blue eyes would no longer open doors or smash ceilings for me. I needed my app to launch and for it to do well, fast. I’d made good money from being a gigolo. Great money. My penthouse was a gift from a former client, paid up front and in cash. But up until three months ago, I’d never made one good financial decision. I’d burned through money like it was fucking s’mores. Fast cars, designer clothes, and private charters. So once I decided to retire abruptly after a
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