The Heidi Fleiss of winter doesn’t wear gold chains or drive a flashy car. He won’t touch cocaine or heroin. He’s loyal to his beautiful wife. A date for the two of them is a shopping trip to the organic market, maybe a movie at home on the plasma TV. For snacks they eat vegan cookies. He can’t stand cigarette smoke. No coffee. His pimp juice is filtered ice water with a slice of lemon. His high-rent apartment smells of peppermint. “Sorry about that,” he says. The mint is prescribed aromatherapy for the chronic hacking cough he caught while living in a dank basement during the South American Extreme Skiing Championships in Las Leñas, Argentina, in the mid ’90s. No apologies necessary. An entrepreneur shouldn’t have to apologize if his pad smells of peppermint.

Call him Bobby Fenton. God help the guy who calls him a pimp. He prefers pleasure broker. In fact, it’s Mr. Bobby Fenton to you. Like Heidi, Bobby trades in a very high-tier commodity. “Mine is the premium, most upscale escort service in the West. We have the most girls and the best girls for sure.” Yes, some of his clients you would recognize. But unlike Ms. Fleiss, Bobby is a professional athlete—a sponsored big mountain skier. And it’s because he’s a professional skier that he’s also a professional pimp.

The word pimp is not a joke, not a euphemism. Bobby’s not cool like a pimp: Bobby is a motherf#*king P-I-M-P. His employees are escorts. The escorts trade in flesh. They have sex with men (and other women) for money. He nets a healthy six figures every year. He’s broken fingers. He knows people who can break bigger things. He doesn’t want to have to call these people, but he’s got their numbers in his speed dial, next to the numbers of his old ski-equipment sponsors...