Who would hire the first legal male hooker in the country?

A desperate spinster? A lonely divorcee? A New York Post reporter on undercover assignment?

Answer: All of the above. This month, as Nevada anointed the country’s first-ever legal male prostitute — in the form of “Markus,” a 25-year-old beefy ex-Marine — it became incredibly clear that one thing had to happen immediately.

The Post had to have a go at this gigolo.

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A $500 cash advance, an overnight flight to Vegas and a 2 1/2-hour car ride later, I arrive at the brothel. I’m sweaty, stinky and pumped from listening to “lite-romance” radio. Because truly: Nothing gets you in the mood for a legal male hooker like “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

At 3 p.m., I arrive at the appropriately titled Shady Lady Ranch for my two-hour booking (Prices: $200 for 40 minutes, $300 for one hour. And sorry, ladies — he can’t go back to back “because he puts so much into it”).

The scene: mostly dust, sunlight and sadness. That, and the occasional sign about the importance of using latex condoms.

“Markus” (real name: Patrick) greets me in glasses, a satin blue shirt and slacks, and leads me to a bedroom where we sit opposite each other as I fumble for the cash out of my “Precious Moments” pocketbook.

“First thing we do is visual inspection,” explains the dorky college dropout who later confesses I am only his second client, he has been with a total of six women in his life, and, to be perfectly honest, he lost his virginity at 23.

“So,” Markus says after leaning over and kissing my knee, “we’re going to get undressed and then take a shower. Then we can both inspect each other to make sure there are no discrepancies.”

Minutes later, as we’re standing naked in the shower, he’s examining me like a second-rate gynecologist and nodding.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, cooing that I’m “practically” an 8 or a 9. “Everything looks great down there.”

Oh. My. God.

Over the next two hours, Markus shares his personal bits, too. Originally from Hatton, Ala., he felt abandoned by his mother after his parents divorced at an early age. (This is why, he says, he got into male prostitution, to find the intimacy that he lacked.)

In addition to comparing himself to civil rights pioneer Rosa Parks (“I’m breaking through sexual segregation”), he also identifies with Lady Gaga (“I’m a performer”), van Gogh (“I’m an artist”) and Moby (“I’m an eccentric”). Before becoming America’s first legal “prosti-dude,” Markus dabbled in porn while he lived in Los Angeles but quit after just two scenes because he found it too degrading to women.

Also, he was homeless for a few months before he learned about this fantastic opportunity to become a sex-worker pioneer at Shady Lady.

To explain my visit, I tell him I don’t have much luck with men, watch a lot of porn, want to learn more and would be delighted if he simply “put on a show” for me.

Now, to answer the question on your mind: No. I did not sleep with him.

It was like a bad second date. That cost $500.

“You have a beautiful body,” he tells me. He kisses my back. “You even taste good,” he says. Then he brings out his little “trick box,” as he calls it, but such is his luck today, he can’t find the lubricant he says is crackerjack for making women climax.

Not so fast, Markus.

“Why don’t you give me a massage?” I say.

He says he’s never had an STD and doesn’t worry about getting women pregnant (“because you can feel it when a condom breaks”). He repeatedly asks to show me his abilities and flicks out his scarily Gene Simmons-esque tongue which totally turns me off. Who wants a man this eager?

“I’m not a hooker,” he says repeatedly. “I’m a surrogate lover.”

While Merril Bainbridge’s “When I Kiss Your Mouth” plays embarrassingly in the background (I did not make out with him), we’re interrupted by the sound of an occasional honk from a peacock roaming outside and, from the lobby, the intermittent sounds of giggling female hookers.

His recently shaved body is quite fit (he works out daily at the brothel, where he lives) and covered in tattoos, including a Chinese character meaning “to seek.” He is 5-foot-9, and, um, very well-endowed.

I have so many questions. “Do you use Viagra?”

“No Viagra,” he says. “No Enzyte.” And he says he doesn’t date outside of work. “I won’t be able to perform.”

When I ask Markus why he waited so long to have sex (remember: he lost it at 23), he says it’s because “no one wanted me.”

How funny, I observe, that he became a male prostitute.

“I think there was a definite plan,” he says.

“Like . . . ?” I ask. Yes, he says. Like a divine plan. Destiny.

In case it ever comes up, Markus says he’s learned much of his sexual technique from the “Karma Sutra,” and the reason he’s such a good lover is because he was “sensory deprived” by his mother.

“I’ve healed people,” he says of his lovemaking ability, which most recently included his first client — a 45-year-old woman who hadn’t been laid in two years and in Markus’ words “was wild as a bug.”

He also loves cooking French cuisine. Favorite meal: chicken cordon bleu.

“I love being caressed,” he says.

“You know that Chris Rock joke,” I ask him, “about how all a father wants to do is keep his daughter off the pole? You’re like the male equivalent. All a mom wants to do is keep her kid from becoming a gigolo.”

He laughs. He reveals his fantasy that he would love to be roughed up by a lady cop with her baton. In the hot tub, he says he likes to be spanked and told he’s a bad little boy.

At some point, for comedic effect, I say, “Come to mama.”

“I don’t believe in therapy,” he says as he holds my hand in the red heart-shaped whirlpool while he lights the vanilla candles around us. “I think this is therapy.”

I ask him again about the Viagra. Because . . . surely?

“No,” he says. “I just have to have attention, you know.

“Touch me all you want,” he continues. “You’re not getting the full experience, I’m telling you.”

As romantic as that sounds, I tell him how much it turns me on to hear about something romantic. He looks genuinely befuddled. “Let me think,” he says. “Like what, like being on a horse ranch?”

He tells me that if you can “pronunciate” words well, it means you are great at pleasuring a woman.

He’s half Irish, a quarter Native American, a quarter Scandinavian and all lover. Favorite book: “1984.” Favorite movie: “Braveheart.” Actor he’s like: “Steve-O.” Musician he’s like: “Moby,” or — wait for it — “Choppin” (meaning Chopin).

“The concept of beauty has changed over the years,” he continues. “It’s like the cave paintings. Venus de Milo. It used to be the voluptuous woman,” he says as he eyes me up and down.

Hold up, hold up. “Did you just call me fat?” I ask.

Then he asks me to spank him.

“Maybe you should go to a dominatrix psychologist?” I helpfully suggest. “No,” he says. “I’m in paradise.”

After a long talk, a massage and his repeated pleadings to caress him, the two hours are up (he went 10 minutes over but still wanted to give me another massage so I had to call time) and the session ends.

As he escorts me outside, he just wants to know: Did he satisfy me?

“Uh,” I say, “yeah. Sure.”

Markus starts to walk me to my car and an older man — Jim Davis, the madam’s husband — stops him. “You got your stuff to do,” he reminds him.

Markus has taught me so much. About what a gigolo should never, ever, ever do. “Women don’t want sex so much as companionship,” he concludes. “Women can be a prostitute. But not men.”

Sure, Markus.

Whatever gets you through the night.

mstadtmiller @nypost.com