Adventures of a London Call Boy (14 page)

‘Have you ever taken, you know, medical assistance? Pills?' I said.

‘No. I don't think girls can take it.'

‘Apparently they can. And with quite spectacular effects.'

I realised that she was looking at me. Or rather, checking me out.

‘What's up?' I said.

‘Well, I'm hardly looking my best, so I'm very flattered.'

‘What are you talking about?'

She nodded towards my groin. My erection was clearly visible, even through my jeans.

‘Thanks, but you're not putting that anywhere near me. I know where you've been.'

‘No offence, Cel, but it's nothing to do with you.'

Her eyes widened as revelation dawned.

‘Ohh. You've taken it. Have you got a date? Feeling a bit nervous? Poor you.'

‘I've
had
a date.'

Her face fell. ‘Oh. Really poor you. Won't it go down?'

‘No.'

‘How many times have you, you know …'

‘Several. I may have lost count.'

‘And when did you start?'

‘Ages ago.'

She thought for a moment, pulling a series of concerned faces that I imagined she'd learnt from medical dramas.

‘Maybe you should see a doctor?'

‘It's a bit hard to explain, isn't it? I'm a gigolo, and I've sourced a load of semi-legal sex pills, shagged for about five hours and can't get my erection to go down.'

Celeste stifled a laugh.

‘It does sound a bit funny, yes.'

‘Funny is not the word,' I said, almost bitterly.

The next morning, once I'd realised that my severe case of morning glory was fast becoming mid-morning and lunchtime glory, I called my doctor. One of the perks of the trade was that I could justify private medicine to myself, particularly as I liked to get myself checked regularly for any nasties that, despite sensible precautions, I could pick up along the way.

I went to a slick little clinic in Hampstead, and they were quite used to my more than occasional presence and my concern for matters related to sexual health. I think my regular doctor, a sexy little Japanese medic, not long out of training, who wore excessively short skirts and those glasses on a cord that suggest sweaty and perverse sex, had probably guessed something of my profession.

‘So, Mr Aleixandre, what can I do for you today?' she asked with a suggestion of a smile.

‘You can keep a secret, right?'

‘I'm a doctor. It's the Hippocratic oath.'

‘Right. So that means this goes no further?'

‘Of course.'

‘Basically, I sourced some dodgy meds from a friend, took some, had lots of sex and now my erection won't go down.'

‘Right.'

‘Do you want to take a look?'

‘Yes, I think I'd better. Go behind the screen and strip from the waist.'

I did as requested, and sat on the bed. The doctor came in. I realised that I might well have had an erection just thinking about her, but it was hard to differentiate with the effects of the drugs.

‘Well, it's definitely an erection,' she said. ‘How long has it been up for?'

I was impressed at her matter-of-fact questions. But I guess that as sexy as she was, first and foremost she was just another professional.

‘A day or so.'

‘Right. Well I'm just going to have a closer look, to make sure there's no damage.'

Luckily, I don't have a rubber glove fetish, otherwise I might well have come over her there and then. She gently held and examined my penis.

‘There doesn't appear to be any major damage.'

Anyone who walked in would have assumed I was getting sucked off. I tried to banish the thought immediately from my mind.

‘There's some chafing. Have you been having a lot of sex?'

‘Well, I don't think so.'

She looked at me.

I gave in under her stare.

‘At least every day,' I admitted.

‘And since you took the pill?'

‘Pretty much constantly.'

‘Right,' she said, with a slightly disapproving shake of the head. ‘Well I think you should go easy for a few days, and if nothing changes, come back. You can get dressed now,' she added, stepping back out through the curtain, leaving me with my hard-on and a distinct sense of frustration. If only life were like porno movies, I thought, ruefully watching her leave me.

A good patient, I did as she asked, even cancelling one of my regulars – I told her I had conjunctivitis, as a permanent erection is no decent excuse to cancel work as a male prostitute. After several cold showers and a day watching knitting programmes and farming digests on digital TV, finally, the fellow went down. It was both a relief and a disappointment to see my member at its normal size and angle. But I'd learnt my lesson: chemical assistance should only be for those who really need it.

Chapter Thirty

It didn't take too long for me to be back at work properly, although I made it clear that from then on the only assistance we were using required batteries.

But it wasn't the only out-of-the-ordinary request that I got in my early months as a call guy. I realised that women often called not necessarily because what they were asking was in some way scandalous, perverse or dangerous, or because they were embarrassed about wanting or needing a particular form of pleasure, but because they didn't want anyone to think that they were silly.

The best example came a few weeks after my incident with the erection that wouldn't go down. I got a call from a landline, a number in London. The lead-in was pretty much as expected.

‘Is that the Joy of Cesc?'

‘Yes, Cesc speaking.'

‘Oh, it's a name, I see. Erm, you, you have sex for money, right?'

‘Right.'

‘Do you do costumes?'

The answer, of course, was yes. At length, she explained what she wanted, and when I hesitated for a second, she began a detailed explanation of the circumstances that had led her to want to recreate this particular fantasy situation.

With the time and place decided, I set about sourcing my outfit. I tried a fancy dress shop, which simply didn't look realistic enough. I phoned a couple of friends with no success. Eventually, I remembered an old costume supplier I'd visited once when acting in a play as a student, back in the days when I was set on an acting career, rather than a fucking career.

I found what I was looking for: an outfit that was convincing, fitted and had a very slight air of the comic about it. I thanked the elderly luvvie who manned the shop and headed home with the kit.

At the flat Celeste spent almost an hour taking the piss out of my costume, how I looked in the costume and the series of increasingly ridiculous puns that could be made about the role I was playing, mostly jokes about helmets and hoses. She also pointed out that I was bordering on turning into a cheesy stripper-gram, which I was forced to accept, with the exception that as well as getting naked I was also going to give the client the screw of a lifetime. Celeste shrugged, and left me to it.

I packed my kit into a large holdall and called a taxi. The address was across the river, a three-floor town house in a posh cul-de-sac close to Blackheath. I buzzed and went in through the ground floor entrance. As I'd been instructed, there was a little cloakroom, where I changed into my kit. Then I went through to the walled garden, where my client had been good enough to leave a long ladder.

I waited, and soon I heard screams from an open upstairs window. Stepping into character, I propped the ladder up, and began my climb. As I climbed, I saw smoke coming out, and as I poked my head up, saw a woman in her thirties flapping around a flaming bin while a smoke alarm went off.

I pulled myself in through the window and announced my arrival.

‘It's OK, madam, I'm here now.' I used a little fire extinguisher attached to the wall to put out the flames, and as the smoke filled the room, I swept her up into my arms. There was, I'll admit, something of the ridiculous about the scene, but as I carried her to the window, she was kissing me passionately, running her hands through my hair and almost dislodging my helmet.

She was, as you've no doubt guessed, a fireman fetishist. As she'd explained on the phone, she had been rescued from a burning house as a young teenager, and had spent years fantasising about tall, dark heroes in yellow rubber trousers. She'd even had a fireman boyfriend, but had found that his professionalism would not allow him to play the fantasy games that she wanted. He refused, I later found out, to either allow her to attend emergencies or to fake them for her. Now that she was a wealthy professional, she could recreate the scenes just as she desired.

I spun her around onto my back where she gripped tightly. The step out of the window was tricky, but I'd been practising at home, and soon we were down in the garden. The smoke had ceased billowing from the window, but we were both sweaty and sooty. We tumbled onto the grass as she kissed me and tore open my jacket. She was a pretty, brown-haired thirty-something, and as I slipped off her dress I noticed a large scar across her shoulder and arm: a burn, I imagined.

‘My hero,' she said, drawing me towards her. I hitched up her dress, pulled down her knickers and began to kiss and tongue her sex. I found the fireman's helmet rather awkward, but she refused to let me remove it. She hadn't come when she pulled me up and asked for me to enter her. I pushed her dress over her head, revealing small but well-formed breasts. I sucked her nipples while teasing her clitoris with my fingers, as she greedily tore open my fly. Soon I was in her, my jacket torn open and her buttocks grinding into the wet turf.

As her breathing quickened and the first signs of orgasm became clear, I leant back and drew her up. She sat in my lap, wrapped up in my arms, and rocked on my thighs, flinging her head back and stroking her breasts and clit. She came quietly but energetically, falling back with relief as her climax ran through her body.

‘Come on me,' she said, falling back on the turf.

I wriggled out from under her and removed the condom. I used one hand to stimulate her sex, and the other to wank myself off, while she stroked my balls and her nipples. Her second climax coincided with the height of my arousal, and as she was shaking with pleasure, I fired a hot stream of cum onto her tits and neck. The last few drops she took in her mouth, enthusiastically sucking in what was left.

A few minutes later, as we lay, satisfied and messy, she turned to me.

‘You saved my life,' she said.

‘Just doing my job,' I replied.

Chapter Thirty-one

Along with the fantasies and scenarios, much of my work as a call guy is related to that very specialised science of female pleasure: giving head.

There is a big difference between giving head to a man and giving it to a woman. Put simply, it's almost impossible to give a bad blow job. Just by existing, a blow job is good. Some women are better than others, but there is no such thing as worse.

But men who don't know what to do, who try and fail, I'm told, can be as annoying and frustrating as men who refuse to go anywhere near it.

A lot of my clients come to me asking very specifically for good head. On the one hand, cunnilingus can be gauged simply by result: if the girl in question comes to a screaming climax, then it's good stuff. But there are different types of good, and different things that women want to get out of a good tongue-lashing.

Sophie, for example, the young anorgasmic fiancée, had come to me, pretty much, looking for someone who knew how to give good head. She'd never had an orgasm just through sex. She'd told me that her fiancé would happily go down on her, but never had the patience to keep at it, and always stopped before she'd come so that he could take his own pleasure. Poor schmuck probably didn't even know he was doing anything wrong.

Sophie needed time and patience. She was surprisingly self-conscious, and once even told me, after one of our sessions, that she was worried about looking ugly when she came. I almost laughed – she was cute and petite all the time, and when she came, with enthusiastic, noisy gasps, I found it irresistibly exciting. But it took her a long time to relax. With her I'd always make sure she got a long massage, or we showered together, or sometimes we'd just sit and chat, to calm her nerves and to get her used to me.

In bed, I spent a lot of time pleasuring her with my mouth and tongue. She took a long time to come, and often I would deliberately prolong the pleasure, moving away from her clit to tease her lips or to enter her with my tongue. As I returned to her clit, she grasped my hair and moaned instructions to me. I tended to ignore these so that I could enjoy spending more time tasting her arousal. Even the loud gasps as she climaxed had something cute about them.

Other girls had different desires. J., for example, liked hard and insistent stimulation, and seemed to treat my tongue as a human vibrator. Her orgasms were energetic and full of action, and as I savoured her juices, I often risked a knee in the head or a foot in the stomach. Whereas with Sophie, I'd vary the rhythm to manipulate her pleasure, to tease out her climaxes, J. liked me to start quick and hard, to concentrate on her clit, and to work to a swift conclusion.

There were various options to consider: pressure, speed, rhythm and position. Some women required just the lightest of touches while others needed harder contact. Raven liked rapid movements, whereas V., Virginia, preferred feather-light touches – she argued that there was a certain subtlety that the tongue could achieve and her sex toys could not.

As for rhythm, when I'd gone down on Raven, it seemed that steadily speeding up gave the best results, although the same technique hadn't been so successful with Sophie. And with Sophie I liked to vary the object of my attentions, whereas my client from the gym preferred her clitoris to be the sole beneficiary of my efforts.

There were other little tricks that my clients liked. V., who was something of an intellectual, after all, liked me to tongue letters on her, and spell words. She would guess, and praise or question my technique. The mental effort, as well as the delayed and tantalising sensation as I spelt things out over her sex, seemed to prolong her pleasure and hold off her eventual climax. J. liked me to hum as I gave her cunnilingus, making my tongue and lips vibrate over her.

I've talked a lot about Sophie, and in a way that's because, as well as my most faithful client for oral sex, she was also quickly becoming my biggest problem. Firstly, as much as I enjoyed the sensation of my tongue against her neatly waxed pubis, I was always slightly concerned that her fiancé might return unexpectedly and kill me in a fit of jealous rage. I'd seen pictures: he was a big guy, and he practised martial arts. I was convinced he'd be able to tear my head off before I'd even realised he'd arrived.

Secondly, I realised I was getting drawn into her life in a non-professional way. We chatted, I told her things about myself, and we laughed a lot. She showed me new outfits and even sexy underwear that she'd bought, presumably to encourage her man to do his job in the sack properly.

In many ways she was perfect: petite, cute, funny and desperate for sex with me. Before I'd become a professional, the last girl I'd had a serious relationship with was a lot like her, both physically and as a person, although of course without the track record of intense sexual frustration and the potentially murderous partner.

But in other ways, Sophie was totally and utterly wrong: frequenter of male prostitutes, engaged to be married and with a history of being anorgasmic. And I realised that the more involved I got with her, the greater was the danger of me becoming unprofessional. I knew that I couldn't get into the habit of offering freebies, as much as I wanted to be with her. If my other Jennies found out that I was giving it away for nothing, I'd be ditched quicker than a used condom.

But there was no way that a nice girl like Sophie was going to end up living happily ever after with a guy she could pick up in a phonebook or from a card on the board in sex shops. Apart from the little problem with sex, she was perfectly happy with her fiancé. He was by all accounts a good guy, with a successful job and a respectable family who got on perfectly with hers.

I also got the impression that she was using me as a way to cure what she saw as a psychological problem, and once she'd become used to coming with me, she'd be able to translate that to other men, specifically the man she wanted to marry. Then, I imagined, regardless of what I felt or did, I was likely to have my unwritten contract permanently terminated.

My job was also a problem: she kept activities with me very much a secret, unlike, for example, Raven and her friend, who pretty much swapped notes, and J., who devoted quite a lot of effort to touting me to her friends. I just couldn't imagine Sophie being particularly happy in a proper relationship with a man whose job was boning other women. How do you explain that at a family dinner? Sorry, Cesc's got to pop out for the afternoon, he's got a client who needs to be bound, gagged and insulted. I'd have to be some sort of male Roxanne, putting out my red light for her. I doubted that she'd ask.

The question of seeing her outside of work was also a problem. Our paths crossed a few times – once in a pub, once in the queue at Waitrose. But she ignored me totally, and I had to respect that from a professional point of view.

Eventually, a month or so later, after a session with her in which, deep in a passionate fuck, I'd thought of telling her how I felt, circumstances intervened.

‘Cesc, I'm sorry to let you down, but I can't carry on seeing you.'

I smiled and held my face in a pleasant mask.

‘OK. Can I ask how come?'

‘I'm getting married.'

‘I thought you were engaged already.'

‘No. We're actually getting married, date and everything.'

She told me the rest, briefly and almost coldly. Her long engagement was to turn into a proper marriage, and her fiancé, now properly set to be her husband, had decided that he spent far too long away from home and that they needed a bigger place, somewhere out of the smoke. That was our last session. I found out later that she'd moved out of the city. I texted her once, ready to pretend it was a mistake. The number came up as unregistered. Once I found myself walking past her old flat. There was a sold sign outside. Like that, she was gone.

Sophie was a lesson to me. I realised that I needed to control my feelings, and that in some way, if a girl was really sexy, I needed to be even more careful.