I recall taking a stripper to the first Lollapalooza at Fort Bend and coming home with two of them. The following year, I took both of them to South Padre for Spring Break. More fun than a bag of kittens. They were being hit up on the beach by the young stud students, so they would take them back to the beach rental for lap dances in the kitchen. The guys were queuing up at the back door, each dropping a twenty in the big pickle jar on the counter for a five-minute crotch grind. We banked and didn't need to spend any of our own money.
About ten years later, I was an older Florida heiress's toy boy in the Caribbean. However, despite the impressive monthly stipend, private jets and the free Mercedes-Benz convertible, the social stigma of being a gigolo got too much, so I went back to work, eventually ending up as a baker in Peru.