The Sexopaths (36 page)

‘But I promise you – I have
not had an affair.’

‘It’s not just humiliating… it
goes so much deeper than that… I can’t even begin to explain what it’s like…
that guy…’

‘My darling… Lucien… he has not
done anything that should offend you… he does not read into things the way you
do.’

‘Don’t make excuses for
him.  You’ve told me already he’d have an affair.’

Monique bites her lip. 
After a few seconds she stops and draws him into an embrace beneath her
umbrella.  ‘My darling – there is nothing to worry about.  I
shall make you feel better.  Just let me think about what to say.’

As he’s speculated before, would
she really let slip such a potentially revealing, intimate detail – that
she and Lucien had privately discussed his reaction to the midnight text
– if she genuinely had something to hide?  Once again her enigmatic
innocence creates an ambiguity that leaves him floundering – just how
well does he know her?  On the long flight at times she’d seemed
distracted, preoccupied by some matter, and at other moments lately he’s
noticed her drift, perhaps whilst reading, or to dwell in the bathroom in silence,
apparently unmoving, or go awol from his side at the airport or around the
hotel complex, reappearing with a look of surprise, as if she hadn’t noticed
her own absence until she saw him standing alone. 
Where do you go to,
My Lovely?
  He’s been holding his breath, unconsciously, and now sighs
as they resume their meandering progress through the old town, a
fast-disappearing slice of the original Shanghai, a disorderly maze of markets
and alleyways where mingle smells of sewers and street food, its swarming natives
seemingly impervious to the relentless tidal wave of modernity that rears up a
block or two away, a twenty-storey tsunami.  He spots a colourful print
amongst a small collection propped up outside a store – Warhol’s Mao
– and stops to take a photo, the irony appealing – in a flash,
appropriately, a woman shopkeeper appears from nowhere to reprimand him; he
apologises – he’s not sure what for – but gets the shot.  They
hurry on a little, chastened.

‘Okay.’

‘Pardon, my darling?’

‘I’ll leave it with you –
to make me feel better.’

***

‘You wan’ sex massage?’

Adam lifts his head, and cranes
to look round at the girl.  He knows precisely what she means – she
could hardly be more direct – and straws in the wind have warned him it
was coming, but still he plays for time.  ‘I’m sorry?’

She cocks her head on one side,
makes a telephone with the little finger and thumb of her left hand, and smiles
sweetly.  ‘I phone friend.  She come do sex massage.’

Adam lets his head flop back down
upon the hollowed-out face-rest, the tiled floor below swimming before his
eyes.  Sounding exasperated, he says:

  ‘I think I’m
hallucinating.  You know my wife’s next door?  With your
colleague?’  He flicks out an arm to gesture at the dividing wall.

The girl doesn’t answer –
perhaps she hasn’t understood.  She says:

‘You pay for extra hour?’

‘I don’t know – have
I?  Should I?’

She doesn’t answer, but continues
to tickle gently the back of his scrotum, adds more oil and smooths it along
his perineum, around his anus.  He closes his eyes, heart thumping, enjoys
the sensation, safe at the moment.  He can’t believe it’s happening,
Jurmala in reverse, the fantasy: the pukka massage that crosses the line…
except now it’s his turn.  Could this be some extreme and misguided
apology that Monique has contrived?

It was Lifen’s boss who had
recommended the hotel spa over dinner – one of the best in Shanghai,
she’d said.  But since when did the girls in five-star spas offer
extras?  And in the surely still prudish People’s Republic?  There
was no suggestion that it would be anything other than absolutely above board,
none of the nudge-nudge intonation nor the sly smile that he recalls of
Vladimir in Jurmala.  He’d sat beside Monique and opposite Lifen, and so
mainly conversed with her, while Monique chatted with her boss.  Earlier,
as afternoon had begun to fade into dusk, they’d drifted about Shanghai,
wearied by the humidity, taking in the sights with calm indifference: groups of
shiny balding old men rolling rattling dice in the streets, squatting round on
packing cases, cackling; harnessed kite flyers despatching their dreamlike
creatures from the lengthening shadows, soaring up to feed in the setting sun;
the darkening Bund – their destination – its sky-high neons and
boat-borne giant plasma screens springing twinkling into life; new and old
endlessly juxtaposed in the sprawling nation city, unplanned, uncomely, a
million Manchesters.  The meal was superb, the surroundings sublime,
though he’d have been happier with a back-street restaurant and a cheap taste
of the real Shanghai; but it was politeness to accept the extravagant
hospitality.  Lifen had travelled back with them in the taxi, making sure
they reached their hotel safely.  She’d seemed happy – she’d offered
to take a day off to act as tour-guide if they wished – they’d kissed her
goodnight and headed straight for their room.  Adam had quickly undressed
and got into Monique’s bed, but he guesses he’d succumbed to tiredness before
she’d finished in the bathroom; it had been a day that had drained his body and
soul in equal measure, his whole entity awash with hormones and horrors. 
He’d surfaced into consciousness this morning with a residue of unease in his
veins, lying in wait to ambush his waking with anxieties only temporarily erased
by sleep.  Monique was up and dressed, loudly clanking over a breakfast
that had evidently arrived via room service.

‘My darling – you are
alive!’

‘A dormouse couldn’t sleep
through that racket.’

‘My apologies – come… have
something while it is hot.  I have a surprise for you.’

‘A bacon roll?’

‘No, my darling, much nicer
– I have made us appointments for treatments at the spa – in about
thirty minutes.’

‘No Russian guys I hope.’

‘My darling – I have
checked – the staff are all female – you have nothing to worry about!’ 

How wrong she was.  It had
all begun as normal: they’d come up in the lift wearing swimming gear beneath
their towelling gowns, and Monique had her gym kit too, they’d checked in at
the spa reception and after a couple of minutes had been introduced to their
respective therapists, thence to be taken their own separate ways for the next
hour.  He’d not had much chance to size up his blue-uniformed girl –
the treatment rooms were just a few yards away, and in seconds he was in
semi-darkness – she was small, slim, Chinese, versus her more heavily
built (and surprisingly heavily made up) Malaysian-looking colleague who had
shepherded Monique into the adjoining booth; she’d acted primly, although he
was immediately surprised that she didn’t leave the room for him to complete
the usual protocol of insinuating himself between the cunningly folded towels
that preserve one’s modesty; instead she simply waited while he handed her his
gown and kicked off his white hotel slippers.  At the sight of his shorts
she’d appeared as though she was about to speak, but instead indicated he
should lie face down on the massage table.  She’d adjusted the music,
increasing the volume, and then chosen some oil, which she’d begun to apply
upon his arms and shoulders, standing at his head end.  From what small
talk they’d managed upon meeting, he’d gathered she didn’t really speak much
English, and thus he’d settled for silence, which she had seemed quite
comfortable about.  It was after about five minutes that she next spoke, and
then just the words
‘You like?’
in hushed tones, close to his ear. 
He’d nodded and she’d continued, gradually extending her reach down his
back.  It didn’t seem to be the usual order of things, but Adam was
enjoying the soft touch, and who was he to know where a trained masseuse ought
to begin?  His mind began to wander back to yesterday’s trauma –
thoughts of Monique he wished he could erase: how close it seemed she had come
to having an affair; realising now how deeply her words to another man had cut
him, and if these wounds could ever heal.  The girl meanwhile, oblivious
to such mental turmoil, was nevertheless doing her best to soothe his pain;
again she asked
‘You like?’
and again he’d confirmed he did.  She’d
stepped in a little, now touching him where his hands were folded above his
head, her groin pressing lightly but distinctly against his knuckles each time
she stretched over him.  He couldn’t but help recall Monique’s description
of the Russian masseur, his bulging pouch squashed against her hand, her
claimed uncertainty as to whether it was deliberate; now he’d shared some of
that doubt.  Next the girl had circled around the massage table and, with
sprightly alacrity, alighted upon it and settled with her knees planted either
side of his hips.  Her childlike weight upon him, she’d resumed the back
massage, now – in a move he recognised, but not from a professional
therapist – sliding her body forward in time with her strokes, pushing
down upon his lower spine with what could only be her vulva, at once soft and
firm, a vital force that transmitted through the flimsy material of her
trousers.  Once more the question,
‘You like?’
  What else
could he have said in reply?  (With hindsight, he realises she’s been
getting him nodding, the old salesman’s trick, psychology: they keep saying yes
to minor points… when it comes to the close there’s only one possible
answer.)  He’d tried to recall if ever before during a ‘proper’ massage
the therapist had climbed upon him – reaching the conclusion that this did
not have the makings of ‘proper.’  After a few more minutes she’d slipped
lightly to the ground, and – confirming his suspicions – had pulled
at the waistband of his shorts.  He’d protested, saying,
‘It’s okay,
I’ll keep them on,’
but she’d replied,
‘Need massage here, these too
much,’
patting him on the buttock,
‘Have towel for you.’
  True,
the shorts were bulky Vilbrequins, long and entirely unsuitable for the
occasion.  He’d acquiesced, allowing her to pull down the garment, now
becoming conscious of his partial tumescence as he raised his hips.  No
towel had materialised and instead she’d worked the length of his legs,
progressively approaching his more sensitive regions…

‘You stay extra hour.’

He’s unsure if it’s a question, a
request, or simply for his information – maybe Monique has booked for
longer?  But he thinks not.  ‘I need to speak to my wife.’

‘You like?’

‘Yeah… yes…’

‘Time turn over.’

‘Okay – you said a
towel?’  He manoeuvres himself around, revealing to her just how much he
does like.  She produces the said item, but it’s hand-towel sized at best,
and offers scant protection, if anything emphasising his nudity.  She
returns to his upper body, and in fact massages his face and neck for a while
– he feels it’s as if to subjugate him – then gradually transfers
her sweeping movements southwards.  She pauses for more oil, then slides
her hand from his stomach beneath the towel, swiftly locating the base of his
penis and drawing her slippery grip slowly up, and then back down, squeezing gently. 
He raises himself up, a declining palm outstretched, ‘No – no,
thanks.’  She smiles and moves onto his thighs.  He lies back and
lets out the shocked breath that had taken refuge in his lungs.

‘You like?’

‘I think you know the
answer.’  He opens his eyes.  She’s bending over him.

‘You wan sex massage?’  She
gestures, delicately, thumb and forefinger joined.

‘Who is your friend?  The
girl with my wife?’  The make up could be the give-away.  He wonders
if he’s got the warm-up act and the other is called in to finish the job.

‘You pay extra hour?’

‘I’m confused.’

She takes his penis again and
executes the slow motion mime she has just rehearsed.  The sensation of
pleasure is exquisite, almost overwhelming.  ‘No…’  Once more he
raises his palms and she retreats.  She climbs onto the table, astride his
thighs, massages his chest and shoulders.  He’s convinced now that the
strokes are not those of the trained therapist, effective though they
are.  Every so often she strays back under the towel and repeats the upward
and downward sweep, pausing to squeeze harder beneath the glans.  Each
time he indicates she should stop, yet the urge to yield to her persistence is
almost beyond his control, resistance excruciating, his body imploring him to
let go.

Her face again comes down close
to his.  ‘Stay extra hour?’

‘Why?’  It’s the stupidest
question he can imagine asking.

‘Make love.’

‘With you?’

Before she can elaborate the door
handle rattles and she springs off him like a scared cat, quickly straightens
the towel and stands to attention beside him.  The towel provides
inadequate cover – he sits up and raises his knees – what if
Monique comes in and finds him with no shorts on?  But his – their
– panic quickly subsides: the door remains closed.  It could of
course be locked, but why would the girl have jumped so?  He wonders if it
was a signal – perhaps from Monique’s therapist or the older woman who’d
first met them at reception?  Maybe time is up, unless the extra hour is
paid for.  The girl relaxes, looks at him, smiles, but quickly he slides
off the bed and folds her into an embrace: its platonic nature seems to enjoin
her to reciprocate, and they stand for a few moments; he feels relief, the
adrenaline drains away, as if her tiny form absorbs his pent up energy. 
She hugs him like Camille, and he wonders what love little she knows.  He
releases her, steps back to retrieve his shorts and gown from a chair. 
She looks chastened, disappointed.  He says:

‘Thank you.  I shall bring
you a tip.  Will you be here for a while?’