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I am a year-old woman who is perpetually single. I am also Indian-American. My parents left India for America in their mid-twenties to give esdort future children opportunities they themselves didn't have.

Most days, I'm proud to be a second-generation American. I'm about to unapologetically become a single year-old, and not only is my biological clock screaming, so is my pushy extended family. And if you aren't looking for a partner, your parents might arrange one for you. But I'm single, a writer, and did I mention single? Warner robins backpage ebony, when my cousin — who regularly chastises me and my penchant for dating unavailable people — invited me to his 27th birthday party, I hesitated at first, knowing I'd be mainly among couples.

I wanted to bring a date with me to spite my cousin, but there was no one in sight: I am not dating escort seriously, and the only friends I have are unavailable or rent. I wanted to change the rules.

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I reached a point where I was so bored with my love life that I was willing to try anything. I could have gone on Tinder. I could have picked someone up at a bar my tried-and-true tactic. I could have even asked a friend to accompany me for the escort — but those options would have been too rent. If I was going to do this, I wanted to take a risk. Yes, you read that correctly.

escrt I rented a gent. Rent A Gent is a male escort service that "rents out" professional escorts for formal occasions. My first choice was a brown-haired escort with a man-bun, but he was unavailable.

He was a Mormon from Utah, and he'd come to New York to ernt modeling. Nearly a foot taller than me, he stood at an impressive 6 feet 5 inches and had the arms of an Olympic swimmer. He smelled like heaven. There was no question: The escort was strikingly handsome. We made a handsome-as-heck faux couple.

I hired a male escort to attend a dinner party here's what happened

He met me a block away from the escort, giving me just a minute to get him up to speed on my life. I told him I'm a journalist determined to write a good story, and fortunately, he didn't run for the George Washington bridge. He was mine for an hour. I went down the line and introduced my date. They rent his hand in awe and approval.

I giggled. I felt it like I was caught in a heat wave. Courtesy of Sheena Sharma After taking our seats at the table, a steady stream of sangria began to flow.

I scanned the room in search of clues that might have threatened my credibility: a snicker here, maybe a weird stare there. There were none. And then I realized something: My plan was actually working. Alec was humble but charming.

He liked to surf, and he disliked TV, calling it "toxic. He helped me with my coat and with my consent, placed his hand on my leg every so often. I'll never know rennt he was genuinely a good guy or just a great actor, but it still felt nice to be treated like a lady.

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I'd never fallen for a guy like Alec, but I found his lack of complication intriguing. His confession that he esvort to get married someday as we sat among many afraid-of-commitment millennials was refreshing. I don't know if it was the alcohol or the fact that he was unavailable, but I fell in love for the night. He had a point.

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Though, later on, our chemistry felt so natural that I forget I'd hired someone to pretend to love me. Three glasses of wine into the night, I sat escort in my chair rent of tapas and happiness. I was the envy of everyone in the room. Alec was the date everyone wanted to be with. Every party guest wanted to be his friend. When the party died down, my cousin pulled me aside.

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It was ear candy. It was a kind of acceptance I'd never felt before, and its impermanence didn't detract from my satisfaction. I waved goodbye to my cousin's friends and grabbed my date's hand. He locked his fingers into mine; it felt nice.

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And though I didn't look back, I knew everyone watched us leave. As midnight crept up, we prepared goodbyes. For a second, I actually considered it. I mean, I had been having fun, and he was cute. But ernt told me that if I went home with him, I wouldn't forgive myself for the rest of eternity. I respectfully declined.

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He had stayed for a total of three hours; I didn't realize that until he said it. Phew, I thought, wiping dribbles of sweat from my forehead. All in all, I had a fantastic evening.

I ate good food and learned that my heart is resilient, even after enduring insufferable heartbreak. Now, a week later, I find myself missing the idea of my date more than I miss my actual escort. Y'know, those little things — calling me "babe," eating off my plate.

Was it nice having a pretend partner for the night? You betcha.

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Will I ever rent a gent again? Probably not. It was updated on Sept.