Adventures of a London Call Boy (6 page)

Chapter Fifteen

While the work situation didn't improve, my state of mind certainly did.

I soon realised that understatement was the way of the Web: anyone seeking a ‘long-term' relationship had a set of shackles already at hand. But at the other end, ‘fun' or ‘no strings' was very often a free pass to a world of sexual enthusiasm.

It wasn't so much that people lied. I mean, some people did, from men alluding to improbable measurements to women skirting round the fact that they were trying to get impregnated, by anyone, now. It was more a matter of knowing your public.

I signed up with a couple of different sites; each seemed to have slightly different requirements, and slightly different clientele. One sight was photo heavy, so I loaded up an old pic from when I was trying to make a go of it as an actor. I was quite pleased with the effect, and the years hadn't been so hard that I could be accused of fraud.

Another site was more about chat and charm, so I cobbled together my best personal profile and sat back and waited. Again, I played up the self-deprecating humour and borrowed a couple of stories that friends had told.

Another site was more interactive, with people coming and going online, chats starting up and dates being arranged. Given my employment situation, I had time on my hands and no boss looking over my shoulder and forcing me into a speedy alt+tab manoeuvre.

Sitting in the pub with my laptop, waiting for either the jobcentre or one agency or another not to ring, I fashioned myself for my different audiences. And the results were impressive.

My professional photo on the website with lots of pictures seemed to have a particular strength: it got me dates with very posh girls. One girl was the daughter of some earl, duke or other nob. My father would probably know the title. I've never been very big on aristos. She emailed me asking if I fancied supper (her words, not mine). I agreed, and she said she'd pick me up at seven. I liked the fact that she had a car, but didn't like the fact that she wouldn't be drinking – it always relaxes things a little, you know.

But I'd misread her email: what she had said was that she would have me picked up at seven, and have me picked up she did, as a car almost too big to fit up our street appeared and I got a text to wait downstairs. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and I was guided into the spacious interior of a Rolls by a butler who'd been resurrected just long enough for the assignment, and resentfully grumbled his way through delivering a shag to his employer's little girl.

It was a good gig, I'll admit. She was some society heiress who'd been ditched by her fiancé, and although the very attractive picture she'd posted was more or less true, she'd been using her middle name and some distant aunt's surname as cover. I was sworn to secrecy before I'd got so much as through the door of her suite at a rather exclusive Mayfair private members club.

The setting was great, the set-up fantastic; the sex, I must say, was disappointing: a lot of barked orders and, when she did eventually come, the disconcerting experience of hearing a girl in her early twenties cry out ‘daddy'. It almost put me off my stroke.

She seemed to get pissed off at my presence almost as soon as we separated. I ran a finger down her spine, hoping to let her know that there was plenty more if she wanted it, but she stalked away from the bed, disappeared into an anteroom or possibly just the toilet and returned almost totally hidden by a thick dressing gown.

After a few minutes of surprisingly awkward silence – bearing in mind quite how vocal she'd been when ordering me to smack her arse cheeks as I fucked her from behind – I got the message and pulled on some clothes, and then left with little more ado. I even turned down the offer of another chauffeur ride home.

Thinking about it, I think she was surprised at how much she'd been able to let go. I imagine her ex was some chinless inbred who could only get it up while looking at a portrait of his stately home and horses, whereas centuries of breeding on her side had designed a woman meant to close her eyes, lie back, open her legs and think of England, rather than the cross between a camp commandant and a vixen on heat that she'd shown herself capable of being. As I'd been there to see the performance, she wanted rid of me as soon as possible. I never saw her again, except in the papers a few weeks later, when her engagement to a Byelorussian billionaire was announced.

Chapter Sixteen

Being shagged and dumped has never been too much of a problem for me, and I got over the business with the heiress in, well, seconds, I guess.

Within a couple of days, I still had no job, but did have a couple more dates, this time from the profile I had online. I'd met a couple of girls via chat room websites. One thing they all seemed to have in common was that their constant need to exchange gossip, titbits and rumours was not just limited to the Web.

One of the women I met was married, in her forties and keen on fancy jewellery and frilly knickers. Her husband worked on oil rigs, and so she had money to spare and six months of the year to herself, one on, one off, when her husband was away. I got the impression that as well as having a high sex drive that needed satisfying, for six months she also needed some company, but from someone who wasn't going to make demands on the rest of her life.

We met quite regularly for three weeks or so. Her husband had gone away and, as ever, she was back online with a false name, looking for fun. We met after exchanging a series of flirty emails and messages, and after a couple of drinks, found ourselves back at her place. She lived further out of the city, up the hill, in an area full of fancy old apartment blocks and expensive Sixties maisonettes. She and her absent husband lived halfway up an elegant building with excellent views of the park and a lift that took you straight into their hall. The flat was lit with uplighters and spotlights, and around the walls were memorabilia from their travels, generally to countries with large fossil fuel reserves.

She was a woman who worked hard to look after herself. I don't think she'd ever been pretty, but she was striking, and her outfit – a leather skirt and tight blouse – was sexy and suited her.

From the first time we went to bed though, I realised that there was something strange about the sex. Although she was an experienced and very pleasurable lover, with a technique that made up for any lack of purely physical attractiveness, I got the impression that part of the reason she was so willing to fuck in almost any position imaginable, as well as enjoying using vibrators, whips and other toys, was that it was a preamble to something else.

An example: somehow, we ended up talking about group sex. She said she'd never been with more than one man at once, but would like to, or at least know what it felt like. After we'd been screwing for a few minutes, she produced the vibrator that I'd used to warm her up. Her pussy was very wet, and I found a tube of lube. I pulled out of her and gently moistened her with the gel. Then I entered her, and once I was half inside, I slowly introduced the vibrator. She gasped as it slid in, tight against my own cock, and then moaned with pleasure once I'd turned it on. We both came, noisily and enthusiastically, only a couple of minutes later.

But these sorts of games and experiments just seemed to pass by. Really, what she seemed to want was the time afterward, the pillow talk, as we lay amongst discarded dildos and torn tie-up knickers, and she told me one element or another of her life story or someone else's. The sex was great, which was great for me, but that wasn't really what she was interested in me for. I was something like a store for spare words.

I didn't mind – particularly as she was willing to indulge and indeed encourage pretty much any sort of pleasure that came to mind. But it was obvious when, a few weeks later with her husband back from offshore, she stopped calling, that I or whoever else was just serving time.

Chapter Seventeen

We're taking a roundabout route to get there, I realise, but the story of how I became a call guy isn't simple.

People often ask about the first time, and I guess the first time I took cash for sex was sort of because of my Internet dates. That's why I say it's all Celeste's fault. Before that moment I'd thought that I was getting something for nothing. I'd had a pretty good few weeks, with a few different girls, and although I was still no closer to anything like employment, I was feeling a lot better about things.

It's a big gap between having lots of enjoyable casual sex to fucking for money or sex becoming a way of earning a living. There are a lot of people who don't have the good fortune to enjoy the former before the latter. For those who do take the step, it's a major change.

I guess that what changed was realising that I didn't need to feel grateful for getting sex. Even more, I discovered that quite a few women had thought that they were getting something for nothing from me. There were even some, in fact quite a few of them, who were willing to make it worth my while.

After a few weeks of fairly regular success via Internet dating, I was in a good position to keep to my standards. That's not to say all my dates had ended in riotous screwing. A couple had been perfectly pleasant and polite but gone nowhere. On a few occasions, it took dates, plural, to get into the sack. And there'd been a couple of girls who I'd just not gotten on with. One gave the strong impression from after about three minutes that she thought I was a prick and wanted to be somewhere else as soon as possible.

So far, you might have got the impression that I'm pretty indiscriminate in the matter of who I share a bed with. But I do have standards, and there are types of women I prefer to others. Obviously in a professional capacity, I keep this to myself. But in the days when it was just for pleasure, I was, well, if not exactly choosy, certainly not likely to go with just anyone. I may not have mentioned it before, but in some of the cases where a date went nowhere, I was as glad as the girl.

It wasn't just a looks thing; sure, there were some I didn't fancy. But unless you can persuade her to do something particularly perverse, there's only so much fun to be had shagging with a girl who you find annoying, who thinks you're a moron or whose voice sets your teeth on edge.

But it wasn't quite like that with my first Jenny. Let's call her J. for short.

J. was quite a few years older than me, smartly dressed, perhaps with slightly too much make-up, but not so much as to make me look for the tidemark. Our date was in a wine bar, at the bottom of Regent Street. It was a funny venue, underground, full of businessmen in double-breasted suits and in the company of their secretaries and PAs. It was as if the world of work and socialising had stopped in about 1978.

I was probably the youngest person there by about ten years, and although we got on fine, never at any stage did I feel that there was a spark between us. I'll be blunt – for the first time in a while, I was out with a date and wasn't imagining what she'd be like naked or, better still, expensively almost naked and posed compromisingly on a bed.

Somehow or another, probably to do with me not paying attention to proceedings properly, or misreading the signs, we ended up back at her place. We continued a fairly pointless conversation about congestion charging and smoking in public, made doubly pointless by the fact that I don't have a car and don't smoke. I'm going to sound like a bush-tease, or whatever the male equivalent is, but I realised at one moment, close to midnight, that I was going to have to come up with some sort of excuse to leave. After she offered me another coffee, or the option of going somewhere more comfortable, I checked my watch and half faked a yawn.

‘I'd love to. But I've got a really busy day tomorrow.'

‘Really.'

‘Yeah, yeah, I mean I probably should be, you know, getting along.'

‘Right.'

‘Work, you know.'

‘Cesc, is that normally how you end these dates?'

I hesitated. ‘Well, sometimes. I guess it depends.' I immediately realised how bad the line sounded.

‘On what?' she asked coldly.

‘Look, I don't want to have a row. I think I should just go.'

‘Don't worry. I know the answer. It depends on whether you fancy her or not.'

I couldn't think of anything like a sensible comeback.

‘Yes. Look, I'll be honest. I guess you're just not my type.'

She looked at me for a few seconds.

‘Well at least you're honest. What is your type?'

‘I don't really have a set one. Shit. You know what I mean.'

She seemed to think for a few moments.

‘OK. That's fine. But let's be frank. You're a barman right?'

‘Yeah. Well, was. In fact, I was fired. I was also an actor, briefly.'

‘So I'll be honest, as you've been good enough to be honest with me. I really want a fuck, and I guess you must need the money. So I'll pay you. We both get what we want.'

‘Isn't that illegal?'

She shrugged. ‘We can have sex. I'll give you some money. It's not like you're working the street.'

‘I guess so,' I said, starting to feel persuaded.

‘I can tell you need the money. Haven't you seen me before?'

‘No.' I racked my memory. ‘Oh … maybe …'

‘That's right. I've seen you at the jobcentre. I'm a consultant for your caseworker's boss. Well, his boss's boss, really.'

‘Well should you be encouraging me to fuck for money? Surely that would be a breach of my jobseeker's allowance?'

‘I think we could probably turn a blind eye this once.'

I hesitated.

‘Is this bribery or blackmail?'

‘Neither. Both,' she said, with a faint smile.

I thought for a moment.

‘How much?' I asked.

‘£100.'

‘£150,' I said quickly.

She paused and looked at me, I guess calculating my worth.

‘OK,' she said. ‘But I hope you're good.'

And the funny thing was, despite not particularly fancying her, despite the very unromantic build-up, I was, and so was she. It was something about getting paid for it that made my very conscious of doing things a certain way. If there is such a thing as a correct way, then I made sure to do it the correct way. And it must have been something to do with the fact that she was paying that she seemed absolutely determined to enjoy it.

‘Tell me what you want,' I said to her, as we stood and headed towards the bedroom.

‘Oh, I think you'll work it out.'

The first thing I worked out is that there's never a huge amount of kissing in professional sex. Mouth to mouth, that is, as we both spent a lot of time kissing other parts. What there is of it is, at most, preliminary and polite. As we sat down on her bed, I shifted to her neck, running my hands up through her hair as I slipped her top and the strap of her bra off her shoulder. I shifted round to sit behind her, and massaged her shoulders, her back, and then round to her breasts. Her large breasts were soon out of their bra, and I worked smooth circles around them before tousling her nipples into hard points.

I pulled off her top and threw off my own and lay her down on her front, running my hands along her spine, massaging her shoulders and pressing my erection between her legs through our clothes. Her breathing was getting deeper and huskier, and I pressed our bodies together as I reached down, running my hands up her front and cupping her breasts.

Then I unzipped her skirt to reveal a tiny thong. It didn't quite suit her figure, but hey, I'm a professional. I rubbed her calves, her thighs, and then worked my palms around her buttocks and up the inside of her thighs. I could tell from the way she was arching her back and lifting her hips that her pussy was calling out for me. Still on top of her, I reached around her hips and slid my hands into her knickers. She was totally shaved, and already soaking wet.

I rolled her over and began to lick and tease her nipples, while my fingers tickled over her clit and lips. She arched her back and spread her legs, inviting me. I kissed my way down her body, probing her belly button with my tongue, before kissing and running the tip of my tongue over her mound of Venus and inner thighs. I ran my tongue along her clit and then used it to separate her lips. Soon I had her clit in my mouth, licking and sucking it between my lips. Each time she seemed close to coming, her moans and gasps getting louder, I pulled away, ran my hands up to cup her tits, and then entered her with my tongue.

‘I'm not going to let you come quite yet,' I said, leaning back away from her. I stripped from the waist and then slid a condom on. As she lay there, eyes half closed, legs wide, pussy wet with my saliva and her juices, I saw her hand creeping down her body towards her sex.

‘Now don't start thinking about finishing yourself off yet,' I said. ‘There's plenty of time for that.' I grabbed her hand, pushed it away, and with the other hand, turned her over onto her front. I pressed myself down onto her and entered her from behind, our bodies both flat, mine pressing her down onto the bed. I fucked her slowly at first, long deep strokes from behind, while she grasped my hands and I kept her pinned to the bed. I could feel from her movement and breathing that she was close to coming.

‘Not yet,' I said, pulling out. She gasped with the sudden emptiness inside her.

My cock still rock hard, I rolled her back over and returned to licking her clit. She was quivering all over, and as she neared her climax, her moans and cries turned into squeals and shrieks.

‘Now, now, yes. I want you to come inside me, now!' she managed to shout.

As I pulled away, she sat up, pushing me backwards and quickly mounting me. She rode me hard, while I strummed her clit with one hand and teased a nipple with the other. She began to call out, her motion getting more and more rapid and frantic with each thrust, and soon we were both coming in arching, bouncing movements, her pussy dripping wet onto my crotch.

After the first effort, as we lay, separated and panting, on the bed, she looked up at me.

‘Are we costing by time or by orgasm?' she asked.

‘No idea. Isn't it a flat rate?' I replied.

‘In that case …' she said.

‘What?' I replied.

‘Come here.'

I moved towards her, and she was soon sucking my cock back hard again. The second session was even more energetic, as I fucked her hard from behind, flat against the bed, to another noisy orgasm.

Exhausted, I left in the early hours of the morning, £150 pounds richer and, officially, a paid shag.