Twenty five 'Final Demand' letters and probably double that in politically correct declarations of yet another unsuccessful employment interview lay strewn across the dining room table. With an almost empty fridge, and even emptier cupboards, times were desperate. I was even down to my last few cigarettes. Of course there is one industry that never suffers from government cut backs or the latest banking recession, the oldest profession of all. It pays well and job satisfaction is literally a prime requisite for the position. So I set myself a month. That would be thirty one clients to turn around my fortune, to say goodbye to the demands of others and the endless constant rejection. This is my account of being a gigolo for an entire month.