Adventures of a London Call Boy (2 page)

Chapter Three

I said that I was going to tell you a bit about me, but I got distracted. Sorry. I'll try not to again, but it's a busy job at times.

So, here we go. I was lucky to be blessed with a number of advantages, mainly, I must admit, physical. I was born in Argentina to parents from Spain: that's why I have a name that no one can pronounce – Cesc Aleixandre, Cesc to anyone except my parents – and no one can tell where it's from. My father was in the diplomatic service, and we ended up being posted to London before I knew what was what. I guess I must have been two or three years old, max. To say that my father was an anglophile would be an understatement. Part of the deal with the diplomatic service was that I often found myself at school in a different town or even country from my parents, so I got used to a great degree of freedom as a boy, as well as never really being particularly close to my family.

What with my background, I always look slightly foreign, and don't really know what to say when people ask me where I'm from. I am, I guess, a citizen of the world, and being just a little bit exotic seems to help in this line of work. From my dad I got a tall but slim frame, dark hair, greenish-brown eyes, and a little too much body hair – don't worry, we'll deal with that later. From my mum I got dress sense and good teeth.

From neither did I get the, well, let's say equipment that you might think a man needs for this job. But let's be clear: I'm not a stripper. It's not for show. It's for a pro. Experience has taught me that charm and looks are more important than a big cock
before
we get down to business. And once we do get to the business end of things, having an average-sized member can be quite an advantage. It means I've got to work at it. I've spoken to a few of my clients about this. They've paid for guys who are truly blessed, who make a big play of being ten- or twelve-inchers, or who have a girth that could plug a manhole. No pun. But that's all they get, and, so they say – because I have this only on second-hand authority – being hammered with a monster member loses its charm after a while. I can imagine. Apparently those are the professionals who go with guys too. Whereas an appreciation of the female form and the type of imagination that you need with an average prick gives you, well, all the incentives that you need. Furthermore, if you're not so blessed in the bungalow department, then, like me, you have to be prepared to do pretty much anything.

Like I said, I like to look after myself and always have done, even before I got into this line of work; I'm not a muscle freak, but I'm not shy of gyms and have been going since I started living in London. It's quality time to spend with yourself, after all.

Self-confidence is also a factor: there's a joke about Argentines that I think illustrates the point. There are two Argentine men in the street. One says to the other, ‘Have you got a light?' The other pats his chest, his trouser pockets, and his back pockets. ‘No,' he replies. ‘But I've got a fantastic body.' I'm not sure where I stand on genes and personalities, but I've never lacked confidence, and an optimistic outlook is very useful in this trade.

I said earlier that I'd come back to body hair. Chest hair some women like, some don't have an opinion. But the female world, as far as I can tell, is united in a remarkably intense dislike for back and shoulder hair, so I remove it.

Depilation has two advantages: firstly, it removes the offensive rug that only bear fetishists and Eastern European wrestlers seem to tolerate. Secondly, it gives you a greater understanding of the dedication that women have to looking good. The first few times I wept like a child after only the first couple of strips. But with practice, whisky and a couple of painkillers beforehand, I got used to the sting. My clients make the effort, and they're paying, so it's the very least I can do.

I've even found work while taking care of the product, as it were; like I said, word of mouth is all-important, and I'm convinced someone's spread the word at the gym. A couple of times I've found myself being checked out there.

On one occasion, a woman in her thirties kept looking at me as if I were familiar. She was dressed in skin-tight gym kit that offered such minimal coverage that it barely passed for underwear, with her dark hair tied severely back in a ponytail. She gave off the air of a marketing manager on her day off, a powerful woman pounding away on the treadmill next to me. As her determined stare caught my eye, it became clear that someone had pointed her in my direction. I smiled back and then later popped a sneaky business card into her gym bag. She duly called a couple of days later and we were soon carrying out a special workout of our very own. I was most impressed by the ease with which she crossed over from her gym routine to her sex life.

The town house where I visited her was glassy and pristine, furnished with low angular surfaces and leather seats. Down a floor was what first looked like a gym: padded benches, a trapeze, what might have been a vaulting horse. She appeared, wearing a silk kimono, her black hair still tied tightly back. I was in tight jeans and a T-shirt, thinking she would go for the casual look.

‘Let's be clear,' she began. ‘I've hired you for rough sex.'

‘Can't you get that yourself?'

‘A lot of men get intimidated. I hope that doesn't happen to you.'

‘What if I'm too rough?'

‘I don't envisage that being a problem.'

Before I could reply, she was under my guard. Somehow, one leg went around me while her hands pushed my shoulders. I was tipped onto my back, before she straddled me. Under her kimono she was near naked and very firm, and in one moment I was winded and turned rock hard. She grabbed my hands and pinned me down before tearing open my jeans and then the wrapper off a condom that appeared from nowhere. She grabbed my cock like I imagine she grabbed a barbell and jerked herself onto it, pulling aside a micro thing.

In a moment she'd manoeuvred herself just right onto me and in a dozen strokes had me defenceless beneath her, listening to her moaning noisily on top. As I tensed myself, I noticed that the room was not just a gym: it was also a sex room: the vaulting horse had wrist straps, the benches were padded in all the right places. As the sweat of her first orgasm appeared on her brow, I took advantage of a moment's relaxation and kicked myself up.

‘Yes!' she screamed as her back hit the mat. I pinned her hands down and then pulled out of her. I hadn't come and was holding myself tight. I slid an arm around her and pulled her to her feet before shoving her towards the vaulting horse. She hit the leather surface with a gasp of pain and joy. I kicked off my trousers and top, and before she had a chance to recover pinned her to the leather with my forearm. I slipped her hands into the straps, met with only faint resistance, and pulled them tight.

‘I bet you want me inside you, don't you?' I whispered.

‘Yes,' she moaned through gritted teeth.

I kicked her legs apart and then reached down and with two fingers snapped off her thong before opening her soaking lips, and then slid into her, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed and force. She came twice more, screaming and sweating as I pushed her against the leather.

‘Now this is what you get for playing rough,' I said. I pulled out of her and stood back. Her legs were apart, her hands were tied at either end of the horse, but she had a wicked look in her eye. I knew what she wanted.

‘Go on. Try your best,' she started to hiss. But before she finished the sentence, I vaulted over and pulled back her hair. I peeled off the condom with the other hand. Her mouth shot open with a gasp, and she had little choice but to welcome my cock with open lips. I slid further in as we stared each other in the eye, and I fucked her mouth slow and hard until I came deep down her throat. Once I'd finished, she pulled her hands from the straps and stepped back, admiringly.

‘You are a very bad man, Mr Aleixandre,' she said, smirking and wiping her mouth. Before I could come up with a suitable riposte, she had jumped the vault, rugby tackled me, placed her knees on my shoulders and her feet on her hands, her hands on the bar of the trapeze, and, more importantly, the thin strip of her pussy perfectly within tongue's reach. I stretched out my tongue and she lowered herself onto it, before shifting so her clit was on its tip. She was even good enough to show me some gymnastic tricks, including how to turn the splits into the lotus position without letting her clit leave my tongue. Her juices ran down into my mouth, strong and arousing. Two more screaming orgasms later, she pulled herself off and stood over me, eyeing my erection.

‘Well. I think we're equal now,' she said.

It took about twenty minutes to go down. Meanwhile, I had the bruises for a week.

Chapter Four

In my work, it helps to live and work where I do: not quite suburban, not quite the heart of town, with a mix of offices, galleries, fancy shops, gyms and parks. Yes, Primrose Hill is a good place for this job. There are few men around during the day and quite a lot of women with time on their hands and money in their Mulberry bags. Occasionally Celeste and I will hang out in cafés there, drinking coffee and, in her case, idly smoking out the door. She always has time to kill, and I enjoy observing the trends and tendencies on the streets of my hometown; I've come to consider it an important area of research for my work: I need to know what the average man of leisure looks like so I can avoid it like the plague.

The only problem with all these luxuries is the cost. When I was a semi-failed jobbing actor, I often found gym fees bouncing straight out of my account. But work now pays for it, and it's become a necessity rather than a luxury. I have to buy a lot of clothes too, as different clients have different needs: some want a rough, denim-y type, others prefer the young city gent, and I am ever eager to please. It was Celeste who suggested that I should try to get these sorts of things as tax deductible. But as I don't really pay any tax on my sex work – shh, don't tell anyone – I guess trying to claim any back would be frankly cheeky.

Despite the cost, there are bonuses to be had spending a lot of time in shops. I've heard a lot of stories from gay friends about their illicit liaisons in the changing rooms at Topman in town. I believe it. Half of the people out shopping aren't just looking for clothes, and commerce seems to get the adrenaline flowing.

I've always liked shop girls, to the point of giving away freebies. One of the local girls has almost become a regular. It started in the early days, soon after I'd started seeing clients. I must have been starting out, sorting out a few outfits for dates, when I found myself in a little boutique by the Hill. It was mid morning, a warm spring day outside, and no one else was shopping. The girl behind the clear glass counter was Italian, with a harshly cut fringe, and a black smock. I must have been looking for jeans. We chatted fairly aimlessly about clothes; she let slip that she was an exchange student, and I got the impression there was more to our chat than professional attention. As I tried things in the changing room, I caught her looking at me in the crack in the curtain. I made some excuse to call her over, and when she went away I left the curtain open some more.

‘What do you think about these ones?' I asked, giving her a twirl.

She smiled, giggled to herself, and came back.

‘Let me look more closely,' she said, eyeing me up and down.

‘Come closer, if you like,' I said. She put a hand on my hip and I drew her towards me, inside the curtain.

‘Careful,' she said, ‘someone could enter.'

‘Yes,' I said, trying not to laugh. ‘Someone could.' I put my hands on her hips and lifted her dress over her head. She had small, pert tits with hard nipples. She gave a shiver as I cupped them and kissed her.

‘Go quickly,' she said, looking over her shoulder.

‘Oh no. You don't want that,' I said.

I guided her round and helped her onto the little leather seat, before kneeling in front of her. I moved the see-through mesh of her knickers to one side and put my tongue to work. I hummed lightly to make my tongue vibrate on her clit, and she came quickly, noisily, with cries and shouts in Italian and other languages I couldn't speak.

‘My turn,' I said, standing back up and unzipping the fly of my new jeans. My penis popped out, and she set to licking it along the length. She worked her tongue all over and then swallowed it deep in her mouth.

‘Come, now, come on,' she said.

I shook my head, lifted her to her feet.

‘Not yet,' I said.

I pulled her knickers down and took out a condom. With it on, I grabbed her buttocks. She reached out and grabbed the coat hook behind me, and I lifted her up and then onto my cock. She rocked herself to another coming before I let myself go, coming deep inside her. She slipped off me, found some clothes, adjusted herself, and stepped unsteadily out of the cubicle.

I tidied myself up, packed up my things in my bag, and stepped out in my new clothes. That was how the deal started: every few weeks I'd pop in when I knew it would be empty, give the little Italian girl something special, and leave with a little something courtesy of her employers, with a little nod and a wink from both of us. It suited the pair of us perfectly.

Chapter Five

I mentioned my friend Celeste, didn't I? It's important in this profession to have good female friends, particularly ones you can discuss things with, and Celeste is a very good one at that. Firstly, she seems to get me a lot of work: friends of hers, employers and once even an older woman who looked a lot like her and who never quite cleared up who she was.

Celeste is also great because of what I can learn from her. Not necessarily because she tells me what women want – I'm not sure she really knows what she wants, in life, let alone from men. No, really, what I learnt from Celeste is what men shouldn't do.

You see, Celeste attracts men in a strange way; not like moths to a flame, although there are a fair few married men who dally with her, write cheques they can't cash and then find themselves scurrying back home after she tires of them and they realise the potential consequences of their straying.

Any man with a functioning libido would be attracted to her – I certainly was, when we met, years ago at some party or another. She wears clothes that border on the bizarre but are also often revealing and provocative. Her haircuts – often featuring masses of dark curls, backcombing and layers – are always cutting edge. She can wear sunglasses that would look utterly ridiculous on anyone else. If it's not her cleavage, then her perfect pins will be obviously displayed. But she seems to achieve all of this as if by accident.

I suspect it's a class thing, or perhaps there's a college somewhere that teaches pouting and insouciance. Without trying, she picks up men. But despite the obvious attractions, she and I very quickly went into the friend stage, and that was that as far as sex goes. She flirts with me, a lot, but in a half-hearted, teasing way, more for herself than for me, and she seems perfectly comfortable being half-naked around me.

No, Celeste attracts men like crumbs to butter, that's it. Her relationships are strange, and generally short- lived. She accepts offers for dates from relative strangers, and has a series of exes and sort-ofs who, in general, are ignorant of each other's existences. She seldom expresses much enthusiasm for any of them, but sleeps with, well, pretty much all of them.

Once I had her tot up her ongoing relationships, and it reached double figures, but none of them, she insisted, was serious. Most of them had come about through little or no action on her part. There was a newspaper editor she met at a fundraiser her uncle organised, a one-night stand that had turned into something that to most men would have seemed fairly regular. She kept in touch with – literally – two or three old university friends on a quite regular basis.

Then there was a photographer guy she'd started sleeping with after a shoot for a weekend supplement, as well as a make-up guy who almost everyone swore was gay but yet periodically converted for dear Celly. She occasionally mentioned an older man, who picked her up from the flat in a large black Bentley, driven by a white-gloved chauffeur and who had once flown her to his castle in Scotland for a weekend, from which she had returned bored and unimpressed. The others were vague forms, or simply a name and number.

With Celeste and men, it's something that happens as if by magnetism, and the results are seldom pretty to look at. I'll give you a better example. We were sitting in a pub in Camden one afternoon. I was killing time before going to see a local client, she was, well, doing the little that she seems to do to get by. I was leafing through the sports pages, she was drinking gin and tonic and thinking about going for a smoke while prying into my business affairs in a half-mocking way, arching her exquisite eyebrows over one of the infinite pairs of Wayfarers she seems never to take off. I think we must have looked very clearly not like a couple.

On a table across from us there were two thirty-something blokes, day-tripping down to London in short-sleeved shirts and kicker boots. One had a diamond stud earring, the other a scar by his mouth that looked like an ancient glassing injury. They were not, let's be clear, men who should consider themselves Celeste's type. I could see one of them eyeing up Celeste, who smiled periodically, apparently out of politeness. Eventually, one of them came over.

‘Mind if we join you?' he asked.

Celeste kind of shrugged. The men came over and sat on two of the chairs at the table. They continued their conversation, trying to engage Celeste in chat. She made polite noises, mostly ignored them and occasionally popped out to smoke. One of the guys accompanied her, but didn't smoke.

Soon, a college friend of Celeste's wandered in, presumably by chance, with another pal of his. They were arty types, in skinny jeans and three-in-one haircuts, doing running and odds-and-sods jobs for a fashion company in town; her friend was showing off a recently acquired neck tattoo. I think Celeste might have slept with one of them, once. He and his pal joined us, while I found myself awkwardly discussing football with the two older men. Mostly, us chaps talked amongst ourselves.

The two older guys got drunker and drunker, offering Celeste drinks that she turned down. Her ex-shag looked embarrassed and over keen. Not long later, another of his friends came over – he'd been sitting at the bar, he may even have worked there – and started trying to chat up Celeste, who was polite and pouty but apparently – or at least it was apparent to me – uninterested.

A few minutes passed before a guy who Celeste was sort of seeing – the photographer I mentioned, a guy in his thirties with a studio round the corner from the pub – wandered in and saw the girl who he took to be his girlfriend – I'm not sure what Celeste thought – surrounded by six men he didn't know. He made as if to call her to one side, but she ignored him with a half pout and a smile. One of the first guys (it had to be the one with the scar) stood up: ‘Are you having a go at her?'

‘I don't know who you are, but this is my girlfriend. Anyway, what the fuck is it to you?' replied the photographer.

Her college friend stood up and tried to calm things down. It didn't work. I decided that the best spot to observe from was the bar, and slunk away. I bumped into a girl I sort of half-remembered from a job (a legit job, that is) I'd had a while back. She was friendly and flirty, and we exchanged numbers. Just as I thought it might be going somewhere (I had already planned our swift exit route to the gents or, better still, my place), I heard the sound of a pint being thrown, very soon followed by swearing and, inevitably, punches.

Celeste had also snuck away, tiptoeing rather embarrassed but quite quickly away from the scene, and joined me at the bar, scotching my chances with the other girl who immediately took me for both a philanderer and a lightning rod for trouble. Back at the table, a full-scale brawl had erupted, which pitted an unlikely set of combatants and fighting styles against each other, including rather artsy flapping and a camera bag being swung. It was, unsurprisingly, going a lot better for the two short-sleeved thugs than the snapper and the fey student-types. Soon bar staff and a couple of random punters waded in to try and keep the scrappers apart.

‘Celeste, look what you've started,' I said, as my potential pick-up walked off.

Celeste gave me a look somewhere between dirty and filthy.

‘What? What did I do?'

‘Nothing. That's the problem,' I answered with a smirk. ‘Except pout, and smile, and be yourself.'

Yes, watching men around Celeste is very often an object lesson in what I shouldn't do, either professionally or for pleasure: drunken schmoozing, leering and letching, not knowing when to leave a girl alone, cheesy chat-up lines, being pushy around other blokes: Celeste attracts the lot. I've even taken to keeping a list of things I see guys do around her, and making a note not to do them myself.

‘I'm off,' I said. ‘You coming?'

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘Honestly, Cesc, you have such a strange opinion of me.'

‘Think of it as a compliment,' I said, as the police sirens sounded up the Parkway outside.

Next time I'll let you in on some secrets of the trade. It's only fair, after all.