By now, everybody knows who Tuk-Tuk Hunk is.

I had been seeing him for months. At La bomba. At the Main entrance. Heading up the hill into Las Huacas. No tank top. His chest professionally oiled, forever just coming from a photoshoot – or –

A Tuk-Tuk Hunk booking.

On Tuk-Tuk-Hunk.com, his boyish looks and grin filled the landing page. There were three price options. My job was to report on the full Tuk-Tuk Hunk experience – so I booked Platinum. $120. Sorry, Nosara Lately.

When he showed up, he leaned out and flashed that same website grin. “Shanti, right? Where are we off to?” OMG, take me where you want, I thought. “Sure,” he said, smiling. I was sure I had said nothing. He stepped out, took my hand, and held my fingertips until I was settled in the back seat. Oh my.

We drove to the Baker’s entrance. He turned off the engine, shifted to face me, his leather seat creaking. His chest filled my line of sight – hairless, symmetrical, professionally muscled, aggressively oiled. He caught me looking. “No shirt. Part of the gig,” he said, smiling, as he reached under the seat, and pulled out two coconuts and a small bottle. More oil.

He fixed us a couple of Pipas. It felt nice being with him. He was nice. He was oiled. He wasn’t saying stupid or weird things. He was just asking me a few questions about myself, we were watching the sun setting, and it felt like everything was slowly catching fire. He had the oil out again – maintenance, he said, smiling at me – and started rubbing it along his shoulders. Without even realizing it, I found myself helping him, my hands running smoothly over the deep contours of his shoulders and back. Bodhi tree gym? I asked. He nodded. I knew.

My $120 was feeling very well spent. I asked him about this – what the Platinum experience included. His hands stopped mine for a moment, and he said simply, This.

“All of this. Time. Attention.” He looked at me, still holding my hands where they were. “Someone who listens. Someone who shows up exactly as they are.” He paused, looking at me, gauging how much he could say. “I show up with nothing but me. And my jeans. No trail of worries, nothing that happened earlier, or yesterday. No kids, no construction stress. Nothing.”
He smiled.

“I’m just a guy with a tuk tuk who figured out that most of my clients are not really after the obvious thing. What they really want is someone who is actually there with them for a little while. Someone who makes them feel seen.”

“But….do you?”

“Do I what”

“Provide other services.” I was trying to maintain my journalistic composure. But I felt flushed, as if his answer might send the moment spinning out of control.

He looked at me for a long moment, smiling his soft, boyish smile. The evening light fell like fire on his chest, on his arms. “I take people where they need to go. Sometimes that’s a place. Most of the time, it’s a feeling. You paid $120. Where you go is up to you. It’s up to you to decide what this is.”

We sat there. The sun finished setting.

He drove me home. He swiped my Black Del Mar Visa for the $120. As I got out, he looked up at me with his crinkly smile and said: “I got Thursday, 4 PM still open, if you want. I’ll bring the good oil.”

He had offered to pull the bonnet before leaving the beach, and when I got home, I realized why. I had been spotted. Messages were pinging in with breathless questions. How was it? Which oil did he use? Where did you park? Did you keep yourself in control?

For once, I did.

I think.|

Maybe not.

I had said yes to Thursday. And yes to the good oil.