Detective Slade Hammer's cock twitched when a quivering twig of a man named Virgil Quiverton stumbled into his office, reeking of desperation and cheap cologne.
"Hammer? Slade Hammer?" Virgil whimpered, his voice higher than a soprano's G-spot. "I'm fucked sideways. Someone's blackmailing me. Help a poor bastard out!"
Virgil's hands shook so violently Slade thought the pathetic fucker might vibrate right out of his ill-fitting suit and cum-stained tie. He slid a tumbler of whiskey across the desk.
"Spill it, limp dick. What's got your panties in a bunch?"
"You... you won't tell the missus?"
"Can't make promises. Give me the filthy details."
Virgil's attempt to pour a drink resembled a premature ejaculator trying to hit the target. Most of the booze ended up baptizing his scuffed loafers.
"I'm just a working stiff," Virgil began, voice cracking. "I make novelty sex toys, y'know? The kind that vibrates and plays 'God Bless America' when you shoot your load?"
"Get to the fucking point before I lose my hard-on."
"I travel for work. Gets lonely as hell. But I ain't no meathead - I crave brainy broads. Sure, I could plow airheads till my dick falls off. But finding a chick who can debate Nietzsche while tonguing my asshole? That's the holy fucking grail."
"Keep yapping, Einstein."
"There's this college slut. Barely legal. Goes to Swarthmore. For the right price, she'll come over and talk philosophy while I jerk it - Sartre, Kant, quantum physics. We exchange... ideas. You catchin' what I'm pitchin'?"
"Not exactly, genius."
"Look, the old ball and chain's great for a quick fuck, but she thinks Plato is Mickey Mouse's dog. I need a woman who gets me hard up here," Virgil tapped his temple. "I'll pay top dollar for a quick mental handjob, no strings attached. I'm a happily married man, for fuck's sake!"
"How long have you been playing naughty professor?"
"Six months. When my brain gets blue balls, I ring up Madame Minerva. She's got a Ph.D. in cunnilingus and runs a stable of brainy whores. She sets me up with an egghead escort, see?"
Slade almost felt sorry for the pathetic prick. Clearly, there was a market for guys starved for intellectual discourse with hot chicks, willing to empty their wallets for the privilege of emptying their balls.
"Now Madame Minerva's threatening to spill to my wife," Virgil whined.
"They bugged the hotel room. Got recordings of me debating Kierkegaard while getting my salad tossed. Real kinky shit. They want ten grand, or they'll tell Mildred. You gotta help me, Hammer! Mildred would die if she knew her inability to quote Dostoevsky doesn't make my cock hard!"
The old cerebral call-girl con. Slade had heard whispers about a ring of well-educated women running this scam, but the cops were too busy jerking off to solve it.
"Get Madame Minerva on the horn."
"What?"
"I'll take your case, you limp-dicked loser. Fifty bucks a day, plus expenses. Hope you've got a lot of musical dildos to peddle."
"It won't be ten grand's worth, I guarantee," Virgil grinned, dialing the number. Slade snatched the phone, winking. Maybe this twerp wasn't such a lost cause after all.
Moments later, a voice-like audible sex purred through the receiver. Slade got right to business. "Word on the street is you can hook me up with some high-class pussy that comes with a side of conversation."
"Indeed, darling. What flavor of intellectual fornication did you have in mind?"
"Let's discuss Kafka while I pound that ass."
"'The Metamorphosis' or his broader oeuvre?"
"What's the difference?"
"The price, sugar tits. Existential analysis costs extra."
"What's the damage to my wallet and my balls?"
"Fifty for basic literary criticism with a handjob, maybe a hundred for a deep dive into Kafka's influence on modern literature while I ride you reverse cowgirl. Want to throw in some compare and contrast with Camus? That'll run you a Benjamin and a rimjob."
"Money's no object," Slade replied, cock already straining against his zipper as he gave her a room number at the Ritz.
"Blonde or brunette?"
"Surprise me, you scholarly slut," he growled, hanging up.
Slade knocked back some jet-fuel coffee while skimming CliffsNotes and stroking his growing erection. Within the hour, a knock at the door revealed a stunning redhead. Her curves strained against a tight sweater like two ripe melons fighting to escape a produce bag, nipples visibly hard beneath the thin fabric.
"Hey there, big boy. I'm Scarlett."
They sure knew how to cater to a man's deepest fantasies. Flowing auburn hair, leather satchel, silver hoop earrings, fresh-faced and makeup-free legs that went on for days.