Adventures of a London Call Boy (20 page)

Chapter Forty-three

I tried to carry on as normal that week, while thinking through a plan.

It was difficult; I cancelled a session with Agnes, claiming a head cold, as I thought that her genteel, arty world really didn't need this sort of interruption. I thought about asking J. for some advice, but decided that she'd be safer not knowing. Or worse, if she knew, she was ballsy enough to try to do something about it, and I didn't need vigilante clients. I saw Raven's friend, Julia, and was particularly savage in carrying out her instructions.

I got a call from Niamh that week, oddly just as I was standing in front of a large picture of her naked body covered only by a perfume bottle on a billboard in Camden. The thugs had stopped following me, presumably because they knew where to come. Her call was to arrange another date.

‘Hi, Chesky. Same time, same place,' she said.

‘Uh huh, ' I agreed.

‘Chad wants, you know, another session, OK?'

We agreed the details of the date: this time, Chad wanted to play voyeur, watching from another room. I was perfectly happy with the arrangement, provided there were no more violent interruptions.

I took a taxi to the hotel – the same one as before, where it seemed that Niamh and her pals had taken up near permanent residence, particularly now that she'd been made the face of a new big-money perfume launch.

The porter and the receptionist gave me a polite nod and I went up without prompting. The suite, I noticed, had benefited from a clean-up, as if Niamh was expecting guests. Which, in a way, she was. The pizza boxes and vodka bottles had been tidied away. She greeted me at the door, even planting a peck on my cheek. She was in her underwear, sexy stuff, clearly an outfit to impress: an acid bright bra and thong set with hold-ups and kitten heels. The extra height made her taller than me, and she stood back and spread her arm in a star shape.

‘Ta-da!' she announced.

That's the thing with underwear: what's better than being well dressed is being well undressed. The very minimum of clothes can take great amounts of time and money: it's what a garment suggests of the rest of the outfit that has been removed that counts. Niamh had hit the note just about perfect.

I clapped and smiled: it was childish, but at least today she was enthusiastic. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and noticed another tall girl, crossing into the bedroom.

‘A friend,' mock-whispered Niamh. ‘You haven't seen her.'

I nodded, wondering whether she was drunk. Regardless, her outfit turned me on, and it wasn't long before we were through in the bedroom. Chad, I noticed, appeared from another room, and then crossed through into the dressing room, off the bedroom, where he sat, watching us through the half-closed door; the other girl – a more voluptuous, olive-skinned colleague of Niamh's – sat on his knee and stroked his neck and shoulders.

Niamh was at her best: we prodded and tickled each other as she pulled off my shirt and trousers, and then without prompting she pushed me back down and began sucking me, casting an occasional glance towards the dressing room. I noticed that the other girl was performing the same task on Chad, crouched down between his legs, her thong pulled up high, tight in the cleave of her sexy arse.

I spun Niamh round so that her crotch was over my face and slipped aside the expensive silk and lace of her little thong to leave her pussy open for my tongue. I licked and probed while she put a flavoured condom on me and then took my cock deep into her mouth, playing with my balls and tightening the pressure around the base. I closed my eyes and tensed, continuing to pleasure her with my tongue.

In the other room, I heard a groan, and looked to see Chad grimacing as he came into the mouth of the girl at his feet. I winked at him and he struggled a smile in response. After just one and a half sessions, I was beginning to think of him as an old, if slightly annoying, friend.

Once he'd finished his orgasm, and Niamh was getting closer to hers, I pushed her up, rolled out from under her and, to her surprise, yanked down her knickers. From behind her, I put my knees down on them, between her legs, half trapping her, and then with a hand across her back and another between her legs, slid into her quickly and fully. She let out a gasp, and it only took a dozen or so strokes before I could hear the beginning of her orgasm. I looked over at my audience and could see the other girl writhing around in Chad's lap as he stroked her clit and toyed with her breasts. I wondered if I might be able to make all four of us come at once.

Niamh's cries were rising, matched by those of the girl in the other room, when once again I was interrupted by the sound of a crashing door.

‘Oh fuck,' I shouted. ‘Not again.'

I pulled away from Niamh and rolled off the bed.

‘Quick,' I shouted, ‘come with me.'

I grabbed her hand as she struggled to pull on her knickers, and we stumbled into the dressing room, half knocking over Chad and his other girl.

‘Man, what the fuck is this?' he said, standing up angrily and pulling his baggy jeans and boxers up to cover himself.

‘Shit. I'm sorry, look, I'll explain,' I said, covering myself while trying to hold up an appeasing hand. I realised I still had the condom on, and picked it off.

‘Che, get that shit away from me man,' said Chad. The girls started to shout too, but both were cut off by the sounds of smashing from the next room.

‘I can explain. They think I'm a pimp.'

Niamh and Chad both gave me variants on a bewildered look, mouthing my words back to me.

‘I'm not. It's basically a massive fuck-up.'

‘Too right,' said Chad.

Niamh looked at the door.

‘Maybe if I go and talk to them,' she said.

‘No way,' said her friend.

There was a knock on the cupboard.

‘Delay them, man,' whispered Chad.

‘OK,' I said. ‘I'm coming out,' I shouted to the intruders, pulling on a pair of jeans I saw lying in a corner of the room.

I opened the door and poked my head out, expecting to be greeted by a fist or a bullet.

Neither. But the three thugs were there again. And they were looking for me.

Chapter Forty-four

I surveyed the scene. This time, it looked like a pickaxe had gone through the door, before smashing a TV and a few bits of furniture. It was now lodged in the escritoire under the window in the living room. I didn't want to imagine the scene downstairs.

‘Is there really any need for all this?' I asked the slick-haired man.

‘If you continue to defy us, we will do what is necessary to protect our interests. Have the girl come out,' answered Wilson.

I looked behind me. Niamh and her friend were cowering behind the door. I couldn't see Chad. Niamh's friend came out, having found a dressing gown to cover her saucy outfit.

‘I'm Valentina. What the fuck do you want?' she said. I winced at her aggression, hoping they wouldn't start taking it out on people.

‘Well, Miss Valentina. Your pimp is out of business. You work for us now.'

She gave me a look, her black eyes flashing with rage, and tossed her mane of dark hair.

‘I'm not a prostitute. And he's not a pimp. I'm a model.'

‘Sure,' he said. Then turning to me he added, ‘What are you doing Frenchy, training her too?'

‘I'm not French. And she's a client. Seriously, guys, come on. Why don't you fuck off.'

‘Oh, I see, of course,' said Wilson. ‘Andrei, deal with her.'

The big driver stepped forward, heading for the girl. I stepped in front of her and held my hands up, fully aware that it might be my last heroic act.

‘Look, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. But this is ridiculous. Let me explain.'

The big man paused momentarily, confused it seemed. Wilson didn't answer, and I took advantage of the silence to plead my case.

‘You've got this totally wrong. I'm the prostitute, not the girls.'

‘You. Prostitute?' asked Wilson, his accent barely intelligible now.

‘Yes. I mean, I prefer call boy, it's a much nicer term. But that, in essence, is the deal. All these girls you think are my prostitutes are not. They're my clients. Apart from Celeste, of course. But that's a whole different story.'

Wilson thought for a second, and then the cold smile returned to his face.

‘Good. Well I not sexist. In that case, you work for us, you are our bitch.'

‘Shit, look, that's ridiculous. I can't work for you,' I pleaded.

‘You can die, instead,' said Wilson. ‘Or we cut off tool of trade, if you like.'

‘No, just, come on, be sensible.' I could see the big man stepping towards me, and thought I caught a flash of metal inside the driver's jacket.

‘Now look, that's just not going to work,' I said, realising that I could hear the begging tone in my own voice. ‘Oh fuck.'

The big man was upon me in a second, while Valentina began to scream. I saw the knife in the driver's hand, and tried to struggle desperately against the big man's grip. I was trapped. And they were going to cut my cock off.

I felt the sweat on my brow and the beat of my heart as Wilson stood over me.

‘So. You decide, Frenchy,' he said, while his driver waved his shiny blade in figure of eights in the air.

‘No one would touch me if they knew I was employed by organised crime. That's part of the attraction. I'm independent.'

I couldn't stall them any longer. I prepared to beg. And then I heard the shot.

At first I thought I'd been killed, partly because in the confusion the big man dropped me. The force of the landing winded me, and I may even have passed out for a moment. Around me, I heard the sounds of fighting and swearing. As I struggled to pull myself to my feet, I was knocked back down again. I pulled myself out of the way, to the side of the bed, and tried to work out what was going on.

What was immediately clear was that there were a lot of people in the room, and they were all fighting. Two men were grappling with the big thug in the suit, while another had grabbed the driver and wrestled him to the floor. Across the room, someone had bundled Wilson to the floor, and the pseudonymous pimp was shouting and cursing in a language I don't speak.

It was a brief fight. Chad joined the fray, laying into the big man with punches to the stomach and chest until he was crumpled in a huge heap on the floor. Someone else hit the driver with a chair. Even Valentina joined in, spitting and slapping at the driver as he lay defeated on the floor. Two men dragged Wilson across the floor. One of them handed something to Chad. As soon as I realised what it was, I realised I had to step in.

‘No, Chad. Don't. And certainly not here,' I said. He turned, clicked the knife away and went to his back pocket. ‘This instead,' he said, waving a heavy black gun at me.

‘No, definitely not that. No one is getting either stabbed or shot here. This is a nice hotel.'

Chad turned to the pimp.

‘You're a lucky man. I should kill you, you know. Now if I ever hear of you around, I'm gonna find you and I'm gonna mess you up. And all your boys as well. Now get the fuck out!' he screamed.

The three hoodlums picked themselves up and slunk away. I looked over at Niamh, who was laughing rather nervously, scrabbling around in the mess of the bedroom looking for cigarettes. Meanwhile, I got a chance to examine my rescuers: five or six hefty young men, generally younger than Chad, in similar leisure wear and tattoo combinations.

Niamh explained it all to me once the boys had gone. It turned out that Chad wasn't just a gym body with a menial job. Oh no. The pecs and the tats were part of a whole different set-up, because Chad just so happened to be a very significant player in certain, let's say, markets, and the reason Niamh kept him quiet and chose to date celebrities in public was not that he was a nobody, but rather that he was a very big somebody, just not the right type of somebody.

Meanwhile, such was Chad's particular line of work that he was obliged to travel at all times with some cover on hand, a little gang of paid bodyguards. I'd noticed them outside the hotel, and just assumed they were local hoodlums. Little did I know that they'd save my manhood, and that my chat with the thugs had been the delay that Chad needed to call in the hooded cavalry.

Niamh paid me double for the session, which was generous. We agreed that we could do with a couple of weeks off. Meanwhile Chad gave me a number, and made it very clear that if I ever had any similar problems, he could get them dealt with. I hoped it was a number I'd never have to call.

Chapter Forty-five

I saw Celeste back at the flat and told her the, well, I suppose you could say good news.

She was almost as traumatised by my experience as I was, and after a brief discussion we agreed that it would be a good idea to get away for a week or so. She had some savings, and a few of my clients were away on holiday, so we decided that we could both afford it.

For once though, my luck really was in. I called V. – you remember, the horsy one with the sex toys business – and told her that I'd have to cancel.

‘What a pity. Why?'

‘I've had a bit of a sticky spot. I think I need to try to get away for a few days.'

‘Really? Well I might just have the perfect solution for you.'

It was, I'll admit, a brilliant idea: she was celebrating a particularly successful year for her company, and had decided to invite a whole bunch of her ‘people', as she called them, to her villa in the south of France. There would even be a few members of the, shall we say, more select press, helping to promote her website.

‘I'm flattered, but why me?' I asked.

‘Well, look, you've tried out pretty much everything I've ever sold. And I think you might have some fun.'

‘Can I bring a friend? Celeste, my flatmate?'

‘Provided she doesn't cramp your style,' she said.

I looked up at Celeste, who was lying with a wet flannel on her forehead, still, she claimed, recovering.

‘No danger of that,' I said.

So, the deal was done. As far as any of the guests were concerned, I was a sex therapist who'd trained at the University of Barcelona and in the States, specialising in the use of specialist aids in overcoming sexual inhibitions. It was suitably ridiculous, and also meant that Celeste was officially my co-researcher, after she'd refused to travel as my official girlfriend.

The next day, there were e-tickets in my inbox and an address in France. Celeste and I booked a car online, upgrading to something ridiculously overpowered to celebrate our free trip. I kept my head down for a few days, printed out a few maps and other bits of information, including some enticing pictures of V.'s villa, and then that Friday Celeste and I headed to the airport.

We left London and rolled out to Gatwick on the rickety local train, Celeste's bags filling much of our compartment – yes, the train was so old it had compartments – and drawing disapproving stares from our fellow travellers. Celeste had panicked repeatedly about the alleged unpredictability of the weather, and the nature of the trip. Both of us had to look like holidaying professionals, rather than a hired shag and his underemployed best friend. As a result, she seemed to have packed everything she owned.

On arrival, Gatwick looked like a cross between a refugee camp and the platform for the last train out of a disaster zone. Long-haul flights were delayed, and families had set up home on the benches and floors all around us. I've always wondered about that: if you're going on a week's holiday, surely after a day or so you'd just sack the trip off and claim the insurance? But the Brits are stayers, after all.

As we queued to drop our bags, I also noticed that it was clearly the day to start a boozy trip away: around us that morning, gangs of stag and hen dos were boozing freely, in silly hats and matching T-shirts. There were also big family groups, and little children on wheelie shoes threaded their way through the crowd with varying degrees of precision while their parents shouted vainly after them. It was, I felt, a very good day to look foreign and smile.

While airports bring out a whole load of bad memories and childhood bogies, they do have one big plus: I've always loved stewardesses. I travelled a lot as a kid, and as in general I was with my father, who was on diplomatic business, we travelled in style. The higher the class of travel, the sexier the stewardess, and the more devoted her attentions.

Celeste chatted away, complaining about the people, the smell and the noise, while I ignored her, watching the gangs of neatly dressed, well made-up, be-suited girls go past. I found myself drawn to the little Korean hostesses, with their starched neckerchiefs flying out at a comical angle, or the slim, elegant and terribly unfriendly French girls in their rich blue suits.

After security and passport control – where they'd demanded I remove my hat, I'm not sure why – we strolled through to the gate. Celeste left me, to visit duty free, where she bought several gallons of perfume and another pair of Ray-Bans, allegedly as presents, although she couldn't specify quite who they were meant for. Then she disappeared again, looking for somewhere to smoke, while I held the fort and waited for boarding.

As it turned out, my luck was in. With seats filling up around me, one of the French air stewardesses came and sat down almost next but one to me. I was leafing through a newspaper, and as she sat down I smiled. I find it impossible not to smile at cabin crew. She gave me a slightly embarrassed look, as if she was in the wrong place, or didn't quite know where she was going and was afraid to ask.

‘I'd ask you what you're doing here,' I said, ‘but it's a stupid question. Would you like a bit of the paper?'

She turned to me and gave me a quizzical but not unpleasant look. She was my age, with light brown hair swirled up into her little hat, and her tailored uniform hugged a slender, very French body. I noticed little details: the elegant little pearl earrings, the absence of any rings, the perfect line of her lip-gloss on a full, pouty mouth. I thought of Vanessa Paradis' taller sister, if she has one.

‘Where are you travelling?' she asked, in crisp, educated English.

‘Avignon. City of Popes,' I said. She smiled again. ‘You?'

‘I'm going home.'

‘Working?'

‘No, just travelling back.'

‘That's good of them. You must be demob happy.'

She gave me another questioning look. ‘I've heard that expression. Where are you from?'

‘It's long and complicated, and not very interesting. I'm from London, but I'm also sort of Spanish and sort of Argentinian.'

‘Hablas español entonces?' she asked me in Frenchified Spanish. I laughed, and answered, and we chatted fairly pointlessly in Spanish for a while. She laughed about my accent, which she said she'd only heard on tapes in class, and I explained it was just a product of too much travel. With Celeste nowhere to be seen, and a line of red ‘Delayed' notices on the board in front of us, I suggested we get a drink, and she gratefully accepted.

It was a strange conversation, but fun. We'd both travelled a lot, and had quite a lot in common. We flitted in between English, Spanish and I tried some of my schoolboy French, which basically amounted to me talking in Spanish with a French accent. After one G&T it made her giggle, after two, she found it hilarious.

We were perched on bar stools at the fairly unpleasant bar in the corner of departures, our legs close together and with frequent brushes of hand and knee. Our flights were still delayed, and I bought some more drinks. While I was at the bar, I noticed a couple of fairly leery drunks paying her predictable attention, and on my return suggested we try somewhere else.

‘We can go to my lounge. It looks like we'll be waiting a while,' she said.

We necked the drinks – I was starting to feel at least tipsy, while she gave a little stagger, half joking, as she stepped off her stool – and headed upstairs.

I was expecting the question, and as we passed through the sliding doors of the executive lounge with barely a nod to the receptionist and settled onto a wide leather sofa, it came.

‘Cesc, you never told me what you do?' she asked.

‘Do you want the story, or the truth?' I said, after a pause.

She smiled. ‘Oh both, of course.'

I told her about my assignment and the trip to France, explaining my work as a researcher into sexual therapies. She laughed, with a slightly cynical air, throughout my story.

‘That's brilliant,' she said, looking away from me. ‘But what's the truth?'

‘The truth is I fuck for money.'

Her English momentarily let her down. She looked blankly at me.

‘I'm a male prostitute.'

‘Are you homosexual?' she asked.

‘Not with men. My clients are women.'

Her sculpted eyebrows raised and she sat back next to me.

‘Wow. You're a gigolo!'

‘I prefer not to use that term.'

‘Are you good?' she asked.

‘I've never had any complaints. A few of my clients moan and scream a bit …'

She didn't get the joke, but by now was clearly already following her own train of thought.

‘Have you ever had sex on a plane?' she asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘But I'd like to.'

‘Come on then,' she said.

She stood up quickly. By now the red signs had turned to green, and I realised that we had to catch our flight. But it was also clear that I was going to be flying a very exclusive class.