Adventures of a London Call Boy (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

As well as wealthy single ladies, frustrated fiancées, and decadent brides-to-be, my Jennies include quite a number of married women. It brings some risks, but in general the women are far too clever and have much too much at stake to risk getting caught. In general, they also have husbands who are away enough to give their wives plenty of time for themselves.

One of my Jennies even introduced me to her husband. She said I was her new hairdresser. My departure had accidentally coincided with his early return from a business trip, and I kept my best, fixed smile without panicking throughout the whole, slightly edgy scene.

Later, she'd told me about the conversation she'd had later with her husband. He said that while he had nothing against homosexuality, he was unhappy about her employing so many gay men, in case it had an effect on their two teenage sons. That she passed on this particular gem as we were deep in the middle of a multi-orgasmic screw made his prejudice and his mistake even more ridiculous and amusing.

I asked her about the marriage thing, about why many apparently happily married women saw fit to employ my services. The Jen in question was a member of Agnes's circle of friends, a forty-something semi-hippy with too much money and time on her hands. Her husband had made a hefty packet in eco-architecture, and appeared to be a charming, handsome and wealthy man. At least in our brief meeting, and what I could gather from the times she mentioned him in passing.

They had three children, and superficially their relationship was about as perfect as a
Guardian
-reading liberal couple's lives can get. Yet underneath her earth-motherly exterior, she spent a lot of time and money on me and on all things sex related. It wasn't quite a double life, rather a part of her life that her husband was looking at but failing to identify, like a colour-blind man looking at a magic-eye picture.

I couldn't manage to understand why he was apparently happy to miss out on the pleasures that his wife had to offer. By her account, they had sex single-figure times a year, certainly no more since they'd had children. It was almost a question of birthdays and Valentines, if she was lucky. It was a miracle, I thought, that the second and third had ever been conceived. But she was a fantastic lover: she could boast some very sexy variants on Pilates moves, was generous when it came to foreplay, seldom declined any suggestion and possessed a remarkable collection of elaborate costumes. Sex with her looked like it was being photographed by Guido Argentini, and was without fail a genuine pleasure. If I'd been looking for an older woman, she would have been a great candidate for the role.

So, I could never quite understand why she was paying for sex. Breaking what is sort of a professional taboo, I even asked her after one particularly elaborate fuck.

‘I pay my exercise instructor, I pay my therapist. I pay my cleaner. I'm just being consistent.'

‘What about your husband?'

‘I don't pay for him. Well, at least not in cash. In fact, if I'm fair, he forks out for rather a lot. Including you, I suppose.'

‘No, but I mean, you have kids. He seems like a good guy. Why don't you just, you know, egg him on a bit?'

‘Cesc, are you trying to sack yourself? Don't you enjoy this work?'

‘Of course I do. No. I'm just, you know, curious.'

‘Christ. Can't you just shut up and fuck?'

‘I can, I can,' I said, holding up an apologetic hand. She seemed to relent after a while.

‘I'm sorry. Look, my husband is excellent at many things. But sex isn't one of them. He's just never been any good. And I don't want to keep hurting his feelings.'

‘What about having affairs?'

‘He doesn't. And I've stopped sleeping with his friends. It's too risky. Whereas you, well I can trust you.'

‘Because you're paying?'

‘Yes. And you have a trustworthy face,' she said, cupping my chin in her hand in a way that was maternal and only slightly disturbing.

I realised that she was right. There is a serious problem out there: a lot of men do not know how to fuck. Not only that, but no one is on hand to teach the very simple things. Like, for instance, the useful fact that in the absence of lubricant, there is a cheap alternative: foreplay. That foreplay, in all its variants, be it massage, games, oral sex, does not need to be seen as some sort of preamble, but as an essential part of the act itself.

And then there's the problem men have with female anatomy. I'll agree that the G-spot can seem like a problem, that after years of scientific research, there's still no conclusive answer that can give men a magic set of coordinates. But I can assure any male reader: the G-spot exists. It has been proven to exist. You can find it. It's just in some cases it's not where you expect it to be. In some cases, the spot that really turns a woman on is nowhere near where you think it should be, or is in the very last place you look. Like in the brain, for example.

If you really can't find it, of course, there's an alternative. It's called the clitoris. But despite the fact that Mother Nature was good enough to put that somewhere it can be seen, it is still too much for many men.

I realised that many of my clients were up against serious cases of male ignorance. A lot of men don't pay attention in biology classes, and then assume that everything is as easy as in Hollywood, where the female orgasm requires nothing but good dentistry and a fast car.

And then there's the problem of selfishness: a lot of men really don't care about women's pleasure, certainly if they've been in a relationship a long time, are too tired to worry about sex or are selfish by nature. That seems to be a lot of men, from what I've been told.

I always think of sex as being like a dinner. You don't rush through your starter and then skip to dessert before your companion has even so much as seen a bread roll. And you don't order four courses if your date isn't eating. You need some self-control, and otherwise, well it's just bad manners.

My feeling is that it's down to a lack of decent education. I was lucky. I had a decent teacher. Agnes's friend reminded me a lot of the woman who taught me an awful lot of what I know.

Chapter Thirty-five

As I said, Agnes's friend reminded me an awful lot of a woman who was very important to me, and I became very fond of her.

She reminds me a lot of an older woman I once knew.

I should just come out and say it. I was taught to fuck by an older woman, a friend of the family, when I was a teenager. Isn't that the best way?

I've thought for a while that it would be a service to humanity, to men and women alike, if these generous and pleasantly perverse women should be hired and sent into colleges or universities as a service to all. There could be a course on it, a sub section of biology, safe sex, sex education or whatever it's called. What women want, or something like that.

I can't remember whether it was a friend of my mother, or the mother of a friend, who took it on herself to teach me about sex. I was at boarding school, my parents away because of one or another of my father's jobs. Boarders had the option to stay at school over the weekend, or, if they could get a note, they could stay at a friend's house. I'd probably just turned eighteen, perhaps, and it was probably the year before I did my A-levels.

It must, I think, have been my friend's mother. We'd been pals for a few years, sharing tastes in music and playing sport together. He was the clever one; I was the sporty one. He helped with my schoolwork; I got his back when we played rugby and football. We'd both had a couple of girlfriends by then, although nothing too serious.

I remember my dad telling me once that his own father had taken him to a brothel when he was about fourteen, but he never did the same for me. I lost my virginity with a girl a couple of years older than me when I was about sixteen. I'm guessing, now, that she must have been a sixth-former from a nearby school, or perhaps it was at one of the awful formal balls we were obliged to attend. The precise details are lost in the haze of hormones and illicit drink. But I was, like almost all teenage boys, inexperienced and fairly incompetent.

My friend's father was away a lot, but his mother was home, unlike my parents who were always travelling around together. So I used to stay round at my mate's family home, a big converted farmhouse in a village near the school. I think in part I was only invited round as a decoy for my friend's own excursions with a girl he knew from the girls' school in town. When asked what he was doing, my friend could say he was going into town to get something for me, or we were going record shopping together. I was happy to play decoy for him, while he snuck off to see his girl, who had fairly liberal parents and didn't mind him spending time in her room.

Now, when I said ‘older woman', these things are relative. My friend's mother was quite a lot younger than her husband, and I'm guessing now that she can't have been forty, and may even have been younger. I'm not sure whether she was a second wife, because my friend has a much older sister who lived in London and was seldom around. Whatever the details, there was something like a shadow in the house, and my friend's mother was struggling to escape from under it.

I got the strong impression that she'd married for money and been rather disappointed when that was what she got. She told me very little about herself – she'd worked in the office of her husband; she liked to travel. I had a suspicion she might have been an airhostess once. She was always well dressed, fully made-up and neatly elegant, even first thing in the morning over breakfast. It was a lot of effort to make for a husband who ignored you.

She was, I discovered, also very bored and was looking for someone to play with.

I can't remember precisely who initiated things between us. It was probably her. At school, I'd seen her picking up my friend before I'd met her, and joked with pals about her attractiveness, particularly the slender legs she'd revealed to us all as she stepped out of a little Merc.

Later, at my friend's house, I'd notice her asking me lots of questions over breakfast, about my studies, and what I wanted to do when I was older. I told her I wanted to act, and she told me about her modelling career, which had been brief but successful, although she was, she mentioned a few times, too short to do catwalk. I still see her picture now, in department store promotions and better-quality catalogues.

She didn't seem to mind when her son disappeared out on one invented errand or another, and seemed quite happy sitting watching videos or TV with me. I noticed on later visits that there were awkward occasions. I went upstairs once, and saw her in her underwear through a crack in the bedroom door. I was almost sure she was looking at me, delaying as she pulled up a stocking. Another time, I walked into the unlocked bathroom to see her wearing only a towel. Jokingly, she went as if to flash me. I spun round, embarrassed, and probably blushed to my roots.

Over a few weeks, with me visiting most weekends, I realised that not only did I have an irreconcilable crush on her but also that she flirted with me a lot. I have no idea whether her son realised or not, but it didn't seem to upset him. He came home once and found us close together on the sofa – I'd sat down first, his mother had joined me. He left us to it, wandering upstairs to talk to another friend on the phone.

It wasn't long, though, before I realised that at least some of my feelings were being reciprocated.

Chapter Thirty-six

It was the last weekend before one holiday or another, and my friend was out, allegedly searching for a spare part for a bike so that we could go for a long ride together on the Sunday – I was training for the annual school race – but really to meet his girlfriend.

I was watching films on TV, while my friend's mother idly flicked through a magazine. I'm not sure whether we were watching satellite, or pay-per-view, but for some reason, there was a sex scene. I was mildly embarrassed and thought about turning over, but I noticed that she looked up and then at me.

‘Have you ever been with a girl, Cesc?' she asked.

I was stunned by the question, and thought about lying.

‘Erm, yes,' I said. ‘Once or twice.'

She gave me a sweet, slightly condescending smile.

‘How was it?'

‘How do you mean?' I said, gulping with nerves.

‘Well, was it like on the movies?' she asked.

I looked up, my cheeks cherry red, and saw an actress coming spectacularly under the thrusting buttocks of one actor or another.

‘Not quite like that, I'll admit,' I said, with a nervous laugh.

‘Would you like to learn?' she asked.

For a second, I panicked. My head was the temperature of a kettle. My balls had shrivelled. My heart was beating out of my chest.

It was, with hindsight, probably the most important decision of my life.

‘With you?' I asked.

‘Of course with me.'

‘Won't your husband mind?' I asked.

‘Not if we don't tell him,' she said.

I nodded. She held out a hand, and led me upstairs to the best classroom of my life.

The first thing she taught me was to appreciate your partner's body. I don't think we even had sex that first time, up in the vast master bedroom she and her husband so seldom shared. We stripped together, very slowly, and she took time to make me get to know her body, her feet, her hands, even her ears, while she did the same to me.

Then we spent a lot of time in our underwear – she was always perfectly done up, and looking back I wonder now whether she might even have done some work as a pro on the side. She kissed me, whispering to me a lot, asking me what felt nice and also telling me what she wanted me to do.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, in which my cock had been straining against my underwear and I'd been nervously trying to stop myself coming prematurely, she stripped, away from me at the end of the bed, and showed me how she liked to pleasure herself. She showed me how she'd tease her nipples, and then she lay face down, massaging the small of her back and her buttocks. And then, best of all, she sat, ankles crossed, facing me, naked, and showed me how she made herself come. I watched her strokes, watched her rub the other hand against her breasts and flat belly, while her head tipped back and she moaned my name in pleasure. She climaxed with quick strokes of her clit, accompanied by deep thrusts with the fingers of the other hand, bouncing up and down and moaning to me in breathy gasps.

Once she'd finished, she looked at me through half-closed eyes, a bead of sweat on her forehead.

‘Now show me what you do,' she said.

I realised that it would take no more than a few tugs on my cock to have me coming all over her exquisite sheets, and that might not make a good impression. I tensed all my muscles and put my hand to my erection.

‘Stop,' she said, coming closer. My penis was quivering with excitement, and as much as I wanted her near me, I also needed a cold shower and a sit-down in a quiet room.

‘Close your eyes,' she said.

I did as she asked.

Soon, she was sitting behind me. I could feel her erect nipples against my back, and her slim hands on my chest and then on my stomach. She wrapped her legs around me and then ran both hands to my groin. She circled around the base of my shaft, gently massaging my balls, and then finally running a hand along the length of my cock, while she cupped my balls with the other. A shot of liquid metal ran through my groin and thighs, and I leant back, gasping with pleasure.

‘Just relax,' she said, developing a slow, gentle rhythm. ‘I don't want you to come, OK.'

I nodded, wincing with effort, but she was a master technician. Each time she sensed my excitement rising, she stopped and gave a tweak on my balls. She kept this up for what seemed like for ever, each time the pain and joy of the expected climax rising to levels I'd not imagined possible.

And then she stopped.

‘I'm going to teach you something about etiquette,' she said. ‘Keep your eyes closed.'

I felt her skin leave mine, and then sensed her in front of me.

‘The rudest thing you can do is come when it's not welcome. I only want you to come when I say so.'

My eyes tightly closed, I sat waiting for her next move. Suddenly, I felt a delicious spike of pleasure: she was running her tongue against the head of my penis. I arched my back and felt the rush of orgasm, but tensed and held it in. The feel of her tongue was gone.

‘Good,' she said. ‘Keep that up, and we'll have a great time.'

She used her mouth much as she'd used her hand, bathing me in the most delightful of pleasure, and then stopping me as the sensation became too much for me. She sucked in deep, slow movements, drawing me deep into her mouth and savouring the throb of my penis. And then, with a move and a tweak, she was off me.

‘Now,' she said, ‘your final lesson for today. And then, if you're lucky, I'll let you come. Open your eyes.'

I opened them. She was lying back in front of me. Her legs were spread, revealing her neat little triangle of hair, while she idly played with her sex.

‘I'm going to teach you how to pleasure a woman, if that's OK.'

I nodded, desperately hoping she'd let me come in her mouth. She guided me towards her, instructing me on where to put my tongue, what speed and pressure to use and when to penetrate her. Soon I'd got the hang of it and was enjoying the bittersweet taste of her juices. She came quickly, clearly aroused by the set-up and her earlier orgasm. I lapped enthusiastically at her, and felt a tweak on my hair.

‘Don't get carried away,' she said, between gasps. ‘No one likes being licked out by a spaniel.'

I concentrated on my tongue work and probed her clitoris. Soon her climax was well under way, and she bucked under my attentions.

‘That's it, yes. Just there,' she shouted at me. As her legs kicked about around me and she pushed me hard in towards her pussy, I continued stroking and licking her. The instructions were over, and she was instead noisily enjoying her orgasm.

Once she'd finished, I sat back, admiring her beautiful naked body and examining my erection. I hadn't come, despite how turned on her orgasm had made me.

‘What now?' I asked.

‘Well,' she said, lazily propping herself up on an elbow. ‘Since you've been a good boy …'

She gently took my penis and guided it towards her mouth. ‘You can come now, if you want,' she said, touching her tongue to my tip and then covering it with her lips.

I lasted about three of four strokes before ejaculating in a pulsating stream, my body shaking with pleasure and relief. As I came, she looked me in the eye and almost seemed to smile, keeping my cock deep in her mouth and swallowing every last drop.

She was, I discovered, a woman who was both extremely generous, and completely selfish, and it was a delicious combination.