Adventures of a London Call Boy (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

We saw each other in much the same way for several weeks. In fact, the very next day, once her son, my friend, had gone out with one excuse or another, she suggested we go upstairs where she could show me some old photos from her modelling days. I didn't realise at first that it was just pretence, and she did indeed show me some photos: an album full of lingerie shots taken when she was in her twenties. There was something slightly clumsy about how she looked, and I told her I thought she was sexier now.

She smiled and closed the album.

‘You're learning fast. Come on, let's teach you some new tricks.'

That day, she taught me how to fuck.

I'll elaborate.

Again, she stripped, this time keeping her distance from me. And then, gorgeously naked, she disappeared.

‘I'm going for a shower. I'll be back. I expect you naked and hard when I'm finished.'

I hurriedly tore off my clothes and threw them towards the door; my cock was already stiff. I stood waiting, and then sat, and then lay, idly playing with myself. I could hear the sound of the shower and I listened for her. After a few moments, I realised that I could hear her, and that low gasps and moans were coming from the en suite.

I stood and walked over. The door was half open, and I could hear the sounds of her coming. I pushed the door slightly, and looked in: in the cubicle, she was standing, legs slightly bowed, masturbating with one hand while pleasuring herself with the hard stream of the shower head, which she held in the other.

She saw me watching her, and continued, looking at me all the time.

‘Get back,' she mouthed, in between her moans.

Desperate to join her, but eager to please, I stood a moment before I realised the importance of paying attention to her instructions. Soon, she was with me, drying herself off with a thick dressing gown.

‘It's all about patience, you see, Cesc,' she said, stretching out her arms and allowing the gown to drop to the floor. Naked, she was beautiful, firm and slender, her nipples still hard from the shower session. She gave me a twirl and I admired the curve of her buttocks and the little gap at the top of her thighs. ‘Where the light of heaven shines in,' she once told me.

‘It's all about patience,' she said again. She reached into a bedside cabinet, and produced a condom. ‘And being sensible,' she added.

We knelt in front of each other, naked, her hair still wet, my cock rigid in expectation, and, not taking her eyes from mine, she unwrapped the condom and slipped it down me.

‘We'll try a few basic positions today. You're not to come until I say so, OK?'

I felt months of tension piling up at the base of my cock as she lay back to welcome me inside her.

‘If you feel yourself having trouble, push your tongue to the roof of your mouth and close your eyes,' she said. ‘I have a book that will explain why it works, you can have a read if you like.'

Her interruption got me back on track, and I took her advice. She guided me towards her and held me back from full penetration.

‘Slowly,' she whispered. ‘You're an actor. You know how important a good entrance is.'

I slid into her as slowly as possible, leaning my head back and savouring the pleasure. She ran her hands over my chest and then drew me down to kiss her, our bodies wrapping each other up while I felt her squeeze the muscles of her pussy around me. I was deep inside her, moving only slightly, as she guided me to rub against her while probing her deep inside. It didn't take long for her to begin gripping more tightly, rubbing against me in quick, feathery strokes.

‘Don't come,' she whispered breathily in my ear, as she did just that, jolting her head back and hooking her legs around me. As she came, I felt her losing control for the first time, calling out my name and saying, ‘Oh fuck, yes.' I sped up my strokes, but the tight grip of her legs around me kept a break on as she savoured the flow of her climax. I tensed every muscle to avoid coming, and soon she had relaxed beneath me.

‘We'll do some basic, popular positions today, OK?'

She wriggled out from under me and flipped over onto all fours. There, she instructed me in a series of variants of sex from behind, explaining to me how to judge speed and penetration, the angle of the stroke and when to help her out by playing with her clit. The result was the same as before, and soon she was coming noisily as I pounded methodically from behind her, steeling myself against the onrush of my own orgasm. By the end, her arms had given up and she was flat against the surface of the bed. Once the throes of her orgasm had died down, I lay on top of her, still inside her, my head in her shoulder blades, hearing her heartbeat slow down.

‘You can come now,' she said, after a while. I was half hoping for another one of her beautiful blow jobs, but instead she wriggled out from under me and pushed me back into a squatting position. She stood over me, crotch at eye level, and pressed my head towards her. I obediently stuck out my tongue, ignoring the taste of rubbery fruits from the condom. She flicked herself against my tongue, standing legs firm over me, grasping my hair and directing the speed. At the height of her excitement, she pulled away and sexily dropped down into my lap. With a twist, I was inside her, and she leant back and rocked herself to an orgasm. I could feel the pulsation of her climax inside her tight little pussy, and despite my best efforts could no longer control myself. As she rocked hard in my lap, I leant back and felt the intense pain and sudden, glorious release of a climax deep inside her.

That was the second lesson of many.

Chapter Thirty-eight

We continued like that for quite some time. The pattern was almost always the same. I stayed round, allegedly to see my friend. Her son, my friend, would make half-baked excuses to pop out, and then go off to see his young lady. Looking back, I wonder whether he simply thought I was happy at home, reading or watching TV. If he knew what I was up to with his mother, he never let on. I think he was very naive.

Meanwhile, his sexy young mother taught me about sex. She taught me about condoms, about positions, about different types of orgasm and about what you could call the etiquette of sex. She taught me some massage techniques she'd learnt, and even lent me books on sex that she kept in a semi-hidden drawer of the bed, along with a set of handcuffs and a couple of vibrators, which she also taught me how to use.

We didn't just have formal lessons in her bedroom. On a few occasions I surprised her in the kitchen and we ended up making extra-curricular love on the table. Once, she even snuck into my bedroom in the middle of what must have been a particularly lonely night, and sucked me off while I slept. I awoke, half coming, before she climbed on top of me to finish the job.

She taught me a lot of things, mostly out of her own selfish love of pleasure, but also, I think, out of a kind of directionless generosity. Over the years I've asked myself about her a lot. I wondered whether she had slept with other lads from the school, or whether the apparent falling out with my friend's sister might have had something to do with an earlier misdemeanour. But there were no rumours, and no one else seemed to stay round as much as I did. I heard a few years later, on the grapevine, that she and the husband had divorced. He'd been having an affair, and so got taken to the cleaners. I rather lost touch with my friend, and even though I saw his name mentioned in an evening newspaper, attending some charity bash or another, I never thought to call him up. It wasn't really him I wanted to speak to. No, I hoped that maybe I could pick up where I'd left off with his mother, my first proper lover, and my best teacher.

I still remember our final lesson.

She had made me massage her and go down on her until she was almost coming. By then I'd come to love the taste of her pussy, and even to be able to detect different stages of her pleasure. But this time she'd cut me off, and, then, to my surprise, she'd had me kiss and lick around her buttocks, before she taught me some new tricks altogether, before making me return to her clit and lips for a final surge.

After she'd come, I sat back and looked at her. She had a wicked, catlike look in her sleepy eyes. With one hand she was vaguely stroking my erection.

‘There are some things,' she said, slowly and luxuriously, ‘that you either don't ask for, or you only ask if you know the answer is yes.'

I looked at her, questioningly, admiring her naked body, as she lay across the bed, lighting up a cigarette with the other hand and then smoking into an ashtray on the floor. I was lazily stroking her peachy smooth flanks and hips. My fingers strayed to the cleft between her buttocks.

‘Like what?'

‘Like whether you can put it there, for example,' she said, raising her eyebrows at me over her shoulder.

‘Can I?' I chanced.

‘What do you think?'

‘Well I've asked, haven't I?'

‘A quick learner,' she said, as I slowly slid towards her and to the final pleasure we shared.

That was our last session together. I got a message at school almost completely by surprise that my father had moved appointments, and the new position was attached to a different school. I packed up and changed schools over the holidays.

I didn't see her after that, and in fact I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to her. It wasn't like I could say to her son, my friend, ‘Oh by the way, do you mind telling your mum I won't be able to screw her this weekend 'cos I'm going to another school. And does she have any tips about how to do good threesomes, 'cos we haven't got to that bit yet?' Sometimes I think I look for her in every woman I meet, and other times I realise just how much from her I learnt for this job. Pro or not, she was a consummate professional.

Chapter Thirty-nine

I'll have to apologise for getting distracted again.

But I guess it's important that you know a bit about how I learnt what I needed to know for this job. I'm not saying that my pal's mother taught me everything that I know, but she gave me a good start, and I'm pretty much eternally grateful to her. If I ever saw her again, I know just how I'd thank her.

So I suppose you could say it was three women who got me into this – her, J. and Celeste. Celeste, really, just helps things keep rolling on, coming up with new ideas and finding an occasional client here and there.

I'm glad of the female help, because it's not always a straightforward job, particularly given how crowded the market can be. One evening I was out with Celeste, down in Soho, having a quiet glass of wine on one of my days off. But even as we were chatting about work, with Celeste explaining a fairly elaborate plan she was trying to foist on me for charging corporate rates, I noticed a sexy girl behind her giving me the eye. She was younger than me, small, with a kind of up-market rock chick look. I blame Kate Moss: short kilt, heavy boots, strappy top and harsh haircut and dark dye job. But she had full lips and breasts that were big for her frame: in short, she was built well for a good screw.

After I'd dismissed Celeste's idea and tried to persuade her that only so much interest in my profession was really healthy, she left me, allegedly in search of cigarettes. I caught the little rock chick winking at me, so went over. She was with a girlfriend who was talking on a mobile about some gig or another, paying no attention to our little exchange.

‘I noticed you looking at me. Do you want something?' she said.

‘Yes,' I said. ‘If you do, that is,' I added. It must have been the hot, muggy evening, I thought, making everyone saucy. She raised her eyebrows, gave a wink to her friend and followed me.

Soon we were at the end of an alley, hidden by some bins. Not glamorous, I thought, but just about right for a quick, dirty shag. We kissed, angrily and clumsily, and I slid my hands under her little skirt.

‘Naughty,' I said to her. ‘No knickers.'

‘Easier that way,' she said, her accent half fake cockney, half home-counties public school.

I played with her pussy while she handled my crotch, and soon she had unzipped my fly and was heading down to her knees.

‘How much?' she said.

I was shocked.

‘You can have this one for free,' I said, leaning back and getting ready to enjoy. But she stopped.

‘No. I mean, how much is this worth to you,' she said, one hand on my erect dick, the other on my thigh.

‘I'm sorry. I'm not quite sure I follow you,' I said.

‘A nosh,' she said. ‘It costs.'

‘Right, I see. Yes, it costs. It costs
you
. I'm a professional, you know. I should bill you just for holding it. I don't do test drives.'

She stood up and took her hands away from me.

‘You're a professional?'

‘Yes. And there should be some solidarity between workers, don't you think?'

She shook her head. ‘I'm sorry. I've got completely the wrong end of the stick.'

‘You're right there,' I said, looking down at my unsatisfied erection.

She walked away down the alley, shaking her head and adjusting her clothes.

‘Hey,' I said, ‘you're not going to finish what you started?' I thought it was a funny line, but the only response was a raised finger over a shoulder.

Once I'd tucked myself away and done myself up, I sidled back out. The rock chick and her pal had gone, and Celeste was back at the table, smoking urgently.

‘That's weird. Where have you been?' she asked.

‘Gents,' I said.

‘Up an alley?' she asked.

I shrugged.

‘Look,' she said, ‘I've just had a weird text.' She showed me the message. It was weird.

‘Tell your pimp you work for us,' it said.

‘That is weird,' I said. ‘I didn't know you had a pimp.'

‘I'm not a fucking prostitute, Cesc,' she said.

‘No. In that case it's even weirder.'

It was, it turned out, also Celeste who got me into the most trouble I've been in since I started this job.

Celeste had got me what on the face of it was a particularly delicious assignment with a young model friend of hers. They'd met while Celeste was helping out (I guess that probably means standing around) on a shoot on the South Bank. Somehow at some stage, she'd told her friend about me and set up the deal.

In fact, it was one of those jobs that sound a lot better than they really are: paid sex with a catwalk model sounds fantastic, but she was probably my most difficult client. She was a posh girl in her early twenties who'd made a fortune by winning a TV modelling competition and successfully fronting a series of high-profile underwear and perfume campaigns. But she was also terribly bored, too skinny, sexually frustrated and quite possibly had a drug problem, all of which made her demanding, unpredictable and not especially gifted in bed.

I tried my best with her, but I suppose that mostly she was paying me for discretion. I wasn't even convinced that she enjoyed sex. Once she'd come, she had little or no interest in anything else. I don't have to come with a client, but only the most selfish of Jens actively avoid it. Even when subject to my best attentions she'd become distracted, and once even wandered off to make a phone call halfway through an orgasm. Hers, I hasten to add.

The rest of this story comes with an admission. Remember how I said that I don't go with other men? Well it's not totally true. After about three or four sessions with this particular Jenny – let's call her Niamh – I tried to find out what it was she'd really like.

She thought for a moment, puffing on one of the slim, all-white cigarettes she smoked.

‘I'd like to be spit-roasted,' she said.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to avoid laughing at her use of the term.

‘A threesome?'

‘Yeah. My boyfriend said he wanted to do it.'

‘But what would you like?'

She shrugged.

‘I'd like to have a go.'

So, just so you're not too shocked, my confession is that I have been involved in threesomes involving other men. But I always try to avoid getting too close, as short circuits are risky, you know. You've seen
Ghostbusters
, right?

Anyway, that same session she texted her supposed boyfriend. It turned out that he wasn't in fact the man her publicist had her seen with at launches and premieres, but an old boyfriend from the wrong side of town back home, a tough local lad going nowhere fast, who she still saw on the sly. It was, in a way, quite touching. I couldn't quite work out where I fitted into her complicated sex life.

Sometime between the set-up and the date, I got a strange message – a blank envelope posted through the letterbox, without an address or a name. I opened it, and scrawled on the paper was a simple message.

‘Your bitches work for us.'

I showed Celeste. She agreed that it was even weirder than her text, but also that it was pretty frightening. I said it was a bit rude to talk about her like that. She gave me a dirty look. Eventually, I decided to ignore it as the work of a freak, and to keep my head down and concentrate on my work.