Adventures of a London Call Boy (3 page)

Chapter Six

I got distracted again. Sorry. So, as I was saying, how does it work?

The honest answer is that even now I'm not too sure. I once asked one of my regulars, V., how long she'd been paying for sex. She was a posh divorcée who'd done well in the settlement and then done even better investing the cash in an online sex emporium. Her bedroom – boudoir was probably more appropriate – boasted almost every sex toy or apparatus that could be imagined: three-headed vibrators, ornamental love beads, all sorts of straps, poles and restraints.

But despite having access to toys even I didn't understand that came with paperback-thick instruction manuals, she liked two things and two things only: oral sex, and being fucked hard. On the one hand, she was the simplest job I had. I saw her once a week, and with the vaguest of preludes, I set down to pushing her to orgasm after orgasm, as she kneeled in front of me, her hands tight on the rail of the custom-built bedstead. But she was also the hardest work I had to do, a genuine workout for my thighs. But I shouldn't complain: for all the work my thighs did, my cock had a great time of it.

On this occasion, after she'd finally given in and I'd come, I rolled over and breathed a sigh before asking vaguely, exhausted, with no idea quite where the question came from, how long she'd been paying for sex.

Oddly, she echoed my most cynical pal.

‘Always,' she said.

Her rationale for my services was simple. As she puffed on a cigarette and I lazily stroked her breasts and stomach, she told me a story.

‘I'd been happily divorced for about a year, I think. I'd been doing the whole speed dating, Internet dating thing. It was just a waste of time, and the sex was bloody awful.' She flicked her hair off her forehead while I ran my fingers towards her thighs.

‘Frankly it was getting me down. I bit the bullet and paid about two hundred pounds for a Coco de Mer vibrator that doubled as an avant-garde ornament. You see it, it's over there,' she said nodding towards one shelf or another. ‘It's marvellous, by the way.'

‘I know, I think we used it once,' I said.

‘Well I've always used them, I've always, you know, masturbated, I mean my husband was a useless sod, so I might as well have something that looks good. But the casual sex I was getting was terrible, and I really didn't need to be tied down. Men only seem to have the confidence to fuck when they're drunk, and then they're generally poor.'

‘It's a real pity they can't make booze that improves potency, eh.'

‘Yes. So I figured, why not combine the two.'

‘The two what?' I answered, not quite getting the gist as I began to kiss her neck.

‘The dating and the expense.'

‘Ahhh. So I'm basically a walking vibrator.'

‘I don't need you to walk,' she retorted.

‘Why, do I get a rest now?'

‘Sort of,' she said, pushing my head towards her pussy.

I smiled. She was right, I thought, as I tongued towards her sex.

Apart from her, why are so many women willing to pay for sex? And when I say ‘so many', I'll admit that's something of a guess. The numbers are tricky to work out. I can't believe that I'm the only guy offering this sort of service. I've looked in magazines, and there are plenty of adverts, although not of course as many as there are for women offering the same thing. There's not a union, as far as I know, so quite how you'd work it out, I don't know. Asking women is probably not the best way.

I only need about fifteen or so regulars on top of what could be called passing trade to keep me in pretty good style. So how many women are at it? I don't know. Some no doubt have more than one regular paid screw. I see most of my regulars weekly or fortnightly, and I'm sure most women would want more sex than that a week. So the numbers must be significant.

I've even been hired by third parties. One of my favourite assignments was as a personal trainer. Of a very special type. A new husband's mother hired me to help ‘train' his young wife. They do talk about ‘helicopter parents', don't they? Without her son knowing, the mother contacted me and paid me to go through a few tricks with her daughter-in-law, in the interest of her son's ongoing happiness. I was happy to teach her some tricks, but I'll be honest: it really didn't take much to get her out of herself, and soon she was coming up with ideas even more exciting and elaborate than those on my list.

Going back to the question then: I think so many women are willing to pay for sex because bad sex is so easy to come by. Hell, I've been responsible for giving bad sex myself, although certainly not in a professional capacity: drunken fumbles at student parties; the time I fell off a girlfriend and her bed, broke two fingers in the fall and had to spend the night in casualty instead of in her; or with the girl with a strange complex who would only let me put the tip in.

You see, women can get bad sex in so many places: with boyfriends who are more interested in the football; with husbands who are fat and dull; with drunk guys you pick up in bars; and with Internet dates who bore you near to tears.

That's not to say that any of these don't have their advantages, and I'm sure plenty of women make do. But if you're after pure, unadulterated, guilt-free, good sex, well, there are few places where it's guaranteed. Which, as you've guessed, is where I come in.

I've asked Cel about this; we have some pretty frank conversations. I asked her to estimate how many times she came, on average, with a guy: the figure was a small fraction of the men she'd slept with, and an even smaller fraction of the shags she'd ever had.

‘That must be very disappointing,' I said.

She sort of pouted.

‘I guess. Sometimes I'm not even sure why I bother.'

‘That's a sad situation, Celeste,' I said. ‘No wonder you have calluses on your hands.'

She poked me, hard under the ribs.

‘There's no need for that. If you were half a man you'd fuck me as a favour,' she teased.

‘You couldn't afford me, Cel dear.'

OK, enough about bad sex. Next time we'll talk practicalities.

Chapter Seven

So, like I said, the practicalities.

I don't, and never have, tried that hard to get clients. Most of them come to me by word of mouth. I guess that girls must talk, and at least half of my regulars seem to know each other, or at least that's the impression I get.

In the first few months, clients seemed to proliferate like an outbreak of flu. A friend of mine who had a job in marketing explained it. You have early adopters, in this case women who know the game and are prepared to try out a new guy who they've heard is available. Then you get the second wave, who've either had a recommendation or are a bit unsure about the whole thing and wait until they know that either the set-up or the guy is kosher. Then things settle down, and you have a solid set of regulars, with occasional additions and occasional fall-offs. Surprisingly, marriage tends to lead to a hiatus, rather than a full cancellation. And on top of that, I guess there's what you might call passing trade and casual enquiries.

Then there are the business cards. I give my regulars a few to pass on. I've always trusted them to do this, guessing that it would be a very short-sighted Jenny who would get possessive about a call guy.

Celeste is normally good enough to pass on my details to agents, managers, photographers and other wealthy bohemian types who like what I have to offer. She's one of my best sources of custom, but as I'm the only one of us who really works, it's the least she can do. I also have a couple of Internet posts. In fact it was an early and very generous regular who advised me of a couple of websites that specialise in erotica, fiction, and contacts for ladies in the know.

I also have a phone number just for the purpose: a discreet mobile that I answer only occasionally. There's nothing more tacky than people with too many phones, answering them all the time in public. It also makes you look like you're selling something that's not sex. A message will do as I always call back. Rates are generally agreed in advance, as are the details of the assignment, whether it's an evening session, a date, or a whole night (rare, as I said). Celeste helped me work out the fees – I was far too cheap at first, and eventually I decided that the hourly rate should come down with time spent.

I make no demands of clients, other than they pay up and tell me plainly what they want, or at least allow me to guess and don't get too shirty if I guess wrong. After a few months it began to become pretty much obvious what each client, be she regular or new girl, wanted. Sometimes it's the glint in the eye that suggests sexual gymnastics or the steely gaze of the primly dressed miss who wants to be blindfolded and tied while I insult the memory of her mother.

And unless it's illegal, or seriously dangerous, I never say no. I have turned down some things: one woman wanted me to break into her house, masked and menacing, and ravish her by force. It sounded a bit dark to me, but that wasn't a problem, in itself. I even looked into sourcing a crowbar and balaclava.

The problem arose when I insisted on using a safe word (it's something I'd read about on a bondage site): a word she could say that couldn't occur in the course of the little set-up, but that would tell me that a line had been crossed. I suggested ‘safe', which she rejected as too, well, ‘safe'; ‘no', which she rejected because she said it was an important part of the game, and then ‘chicken', which she thought could easily be used as an insult and might quite naturally be uttered. Eventually, I sacked her off as a timewaster and hung up.

Sometimes I can get a surprise, like the small, quietly spoken art teacher who shared a flat with her sister and hired me because she wanted to try out a strap-on on a guy. Hey, I said I never say no, although it was a strange experience, I'll confess.

She let me go on ‘top' first; I turned her round and pinned her hands down over her head. Meanwhile I fucked her steadily while playing with her clit, bringing her to two trembling orgasms. Then the strange stuff started: she stepped away from the bed and rummaged around in a drawer that looked like it should hold sheet music or primary school marking; instead, she emerged with what looked like a leather jockstrap with a black penis attached.

‘This might hurt,' she said, as I assumed the position. She was right, but it was bearable. And she was paying. After a while of being rogered, as she panted behind me, I wondered quite where it was leading.

‘How about you be a good girl and give a guy a reach-around?' I asked. I winced after a particular vehement stroke, but soon she had her hand on my cock. Her little hand made it look even bigger as she wanked me off over the bed. After a while I even got used to the sensation of having her in me, and I came, hard and hot into her hand.

‘Next time,' I said, ‘you're going to find out what that's like.'

And she did: I think she liked it a lot more than I did.

There aren't really many other rules. I expect payment in cash in advance, even with my regulars. It keeps things a lot simpler and makes it clear precisely what the deal is. I'll wear what you like, and you can do likewise; I'm not fussy, and indeed why would I be? If we're out in public, it's best not to mention precisely what the circumstances are, mainly because someone told me that it's strictly illegal, although it would be odd to end up in jail for it. Also, quite a few of the nicer restaurants are a bit sniffy about what they know goes on. Come on though. How many of those beautiful exotic girls you see with slightly puffy older gentlemen in hotel bars and restaurants are not in it for money? Why do you think they call it going out for nosh? Well the same goes for me, yet I suppose such establishments must at least keep up appearances.

What else is there? I don't see my clients except on a professional basis and I won't turn tricks for friends as that really does blur the line. Drunkenly Celeste tried to buy head from me once – I'm not sure why, but I suspect that she was teasing as much as anything – and I was quite within my rights to tell her to go screw herself, which I think she probably did judging from the moans, whimpers and faint vibrating sound coming from her room later on. I guess Celeste's problem is probably bad sex and I get the impression she fucks to kill time and masturbates for pleasure. She never seems to talk about her sex life in enthusiastic terms, yet takes a lot of interest in my efforts.

So I suppose the answer is: it just works. Now next time I'll tell you a bit about how I got into this game.

Chapter Eight

It was a bad week when I started on the road towards my current career. I'd been working at a friend's company, a dot-com outfit selling knockdown fashions. The boss was an old school friend of mine whose family worked in fabrics or something similar; I think his granddad had owned a factory somewhere in the Midlands. His dad had decided to expand the business and bought a factory in China that made lookalike clothes and Junior had set up an Internet site that sold these.

Things were going well and they'd moved to a new office off Farringdon Road in one of those new glass-fronted buildings. I think he owed me a favour at the time; I'm not sure why he would have decided to offer me a job otherwise. In fact he called me just after another of my failed auditions and at a weak moment; otherwise I probably wouldn't have accepted. But the idea of a regular wage and something approaching a real job was strangely appealing for someone who was decidedly failing to make it in the media or in showbiz. Apparently, he was having grand designs for world domination. I should have realised then that it was a bad idea even then.

The scheme my pal had hatched to up his sales was to get his slightly ropey wares into big department stores. Simple, he thought: everyone wants a bargain, and concessions were money for nothing.

It was my job to charm buyers from these department stores. The charm I could do at the drop of a trilby; first off, I got myself a date with a girl from men's fashions at Selfridges. She couldn't have been much more than twenty, and I suspected that she might have got the job because of who she knew. Later, after we'd enjoyed a particularly boozy evening at a little vodka bar behind Oxford Street, we found ourselves back at her place, a penthouse overlooking Regent's Park, and I decided that it was either that, or because of her skills in the sack.

After scarcely touching a coffee on her very striking orange leather sofa she was soon sitting on my lap, kissing me as we undressed each other. She gave me a spectacular blow job as I enjoyed the view through the floor-to-ceiling window, more importantly with her perfect butt reflected in it. Just before I was going to come, I stopped her and perched her back on my lap. She slipped my cock inside her and rocked her way to an orgasm that shook us off the sofa and onto the thick tiger-skin rug. I didn't let the radical chic of the design put me off. I made her turn around and I slid deeper inside her; she moaned appreciatively, hooking her ankles over mine to lock us together. Twice more she moaned loudly to climax, before I let myself go and came deep inside her. As I pulled out, the condom was soaked in her juices.

But despite my best efforts, there was no sale.

A few weeks later, I got chatting at length to a buyer from Liberty. She was tall and slim, in her forties I guess, and specialised in fancy fabrics. Work-wise, I hadn't a hope – Liberty weren't going to touch my mate's wares with a finely wrought obsidian and jet barge pole. But I clocked the absence of a wedding ring and the dallying conversation that strayed on to lighter matters than next year's stock patterns. I invited her for a coffee, and with no great effort persuaded her to knock off early that afternoon. At some stage she'd mentioned a particular design feature of her flat, which I agreed to let her show me.

On that very skinny pretence we found ourselves at her place, half a town house in Mayfair, where we spent a wholly pleasurable afternoon fucking each other's brains out. I particularly remember doing my bit for the field of fabrics and drapery, as we put her baroque-pattern silk curtain ties to a far more pleasurable use, after she asked to be tied and blindfolded as I tongued her to orgasm.

But again, great sex, no sale. Indeed, no one was buying our wares, regardless of whether I was having sex with her or not. Sadly – and I say this very much with hindsight, as at the time it seemed the most sensible thing in the world – that didn't seem to stop the business forking out vast sums. They paid for new furniture, away days, wild expenses and graphic designers. Around me colleagues were turning up in a new suit and a different watch every day. For my part, I helped myself to any number of freebies and charged pretty much every breath, bite and movement to the company, including several quite spectacularly successful dates. So even then, I guess, I was being paid to fuck.

The final straw for the business came in October: a bunch of kids broke into the warehouse we had just off the M25. While trying to smoke a few spliffs and muck around with their scooters, they managed to set fire to a whole season and a half's worth of stock. Apparently my pal didn't have quite as much business acumen as he'd made out, and insurance had been beyond his imagination. With no stock and thousands of pounds worth of orders outstanding, the business folded.

I'd been there two months: I'd turned down auditions and even some modelling work. I was
persona non grata
with all my previous contacts. As is the fate of most out-of-work jobbing actors-cum-models, I ended up in behind my local bar, back in Chalk Farm.