"I know. It's fucked up. What am I going to do?" I asked her.

"Same thing I always do," said Jane. "Call Adonis."

"Who?" I said, not sure I'd heard her right.

And then my best friend, about whom I thought I knew everything, confessed that for years she'd been using a high-class male escort service. As she described the agency, it became clear that it was the best-kept secret among the richest women in the city. The escorts on its books, mainly models and actors, were intelligent, very attractive, well-bred young men charging hundreds of dollars an hour for the pleasure of their company. And, as Jane pointed out, unlike a real date, they were doing it professionally and so delivered to a standard: no risk that they'd get drunk and embarrass you, bore you to tears, or get aggressive on the doorstep about "coming in for coffee."

I tried to recall the last few men I'd seen with my friend. They had, without exception, been charming, witty, and devastatingly handsome. No way would I ever have guessed that they were paid escorts. I was impressed. And Jane-beautiful, rich, and glamorous-was hardly the desperate type. I wrote down the telephone number and website she gave me.

After I hung up the phone, I fixed myself a mar tini and gave the matter some serious thought. I was used to spending my money on the best of everything in life. I've paid big money for ski instructors, top-notch doctors, celebrity hairstylists… even my housecleaner costs me a small fortune (but well worth the expense). So why should the service of good-quality male company be any different?

Out of curiosity, I looked at the website and signed in using the password that Jane had given me. The navy-and-gold design was sleek and professional, and I could choose my escort by any category I wanted: location, race, age, IQ, height, even educational background. I didn't know where to start, so I decided to browse the guys based in New York. There were about fifty of them to choose from, and each had provided a head-and-shoulders photograph as well as a full-length picture in a suit and-my personal favorite-a shot in his underwear. Each boasted an impressive CV. I'd been expecting a parade of male bimbos, but there were a wide variety of guys, from former professional football players to part-time diving instructors and even a couple of university professors.