Here it is, Seventeen Cherry Walk – nice place. Lifting the stirrup-shaped brass knocker, I make four gentle taps on the polished wood and wait. It’s cold and I’m shivering. I dig my hands into my jacket pockets and pull it close around me. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up. That feeling: like when I was a kid unwrapping one of those crappy parcels Father Christmas gave me in John Lewis’s. You never knew what was inside, but you always hoped it’d be something special. Here I know what my present will be. It’s the wrapping I’m interested in.
I can hear movement, soft footsteps. No tick-tacking heels. A good sign. The door eases a half-yard inward. All I see is a curtain across the entrance and a delicate hand withdraw behind it. The hand re-appears further up and the curtain parts. Her half hidden face and glimpse of shoulder tell me all I need to know. This one is special.
She waits for me to speak first. ‘I’m Jim,’ I say. ‘I understand Susan lives at this address.’ We both know her name isn’t Susan and I’m not called Jim.
I’ve been doing this for about seven years. It started when I was at Uni in Bristol. I found out how to do it when a mature MBA student confessed all after he lost a drinking game we’d conned him into. We stared in naïve amazement while he described in minute detail how to find prostitutes. Not those pathetic junkies on City Road. Good girls – professionals. Women who enjoyed their work or at least took it seriously.
All my mates thought it was a big joke. Who wants to pay for it when you can get it for free right here? But I was curious. It wasn’t the thought of easy sex . . . I mean, I was at university. It was the thrill. The thrill of the chase. That MBA student made it sound like a military operation: a spy mission.
Prostitution is illegal in the UK. And yet it isn’t. Soliciting is, and so is running a brothel. But fucking for money in the privacy of your own home? That’s okay. The skill is in finding someone. I decided to give it a try. I only intended to do it the once. It would cost money: about seventy quid. A lot for a student. I had some savings left over from my summer job, so I decided it’d be worth diving into them in the interest of research. Well, I was studying Biochemistry.
It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. I got told to fuck off over the phone three times, called dirty little pervert twice and some bloke threatened me with a beating. When I did get as far as a someone’s front door, she told me to come back when I was out of nappies. I persevered and it didn’t take me long to work out three things. First: look for adverts in the right place (local papers are best). Second: answer the right ones (avoid massagers, French lessons, friendly female seeks male and stuff like that). Third – and most important – ask the right questions.
The problem is, although it’s safe to work from home, the girls need to find customers. They can’t advertise as that’s illegal and the vice squad is always on the lookout for organised prostitution. They work like free-lance taxi drivers. Someone takes the calls and spreads the jobs out. Innocent looking advertisements are put in local papers. Something like: Personal counselling service. Qualified staff. Call for an appointment. Punters have to know the right way to enquire. Even then, they get asked a shit-load of questions and appointments are never guaranteed. If they think you’re genuine, they ask you to call back. Usually on a different number. When you do, you’ll either get fobbed off or you’ll get a name, an hourly rate, a time and directions. The going rate is about eighty to ninety quid these days. Don’t bother to call them on a mobile, they won’t answer.
My first time was in Bath and it was good. She was about thirty-five. Old, but experienced I thought at the time. I learned more in two hours than I could have in a year at University. She threw in an extra hour because she’d never had a student before and it made her horny. I was hooker’d . . . so to speak. I’ve been doing it ever since, either in a place a car ride away or whenever I’m out of town (don’t do it on your own doorstep – you might meet her in Tesco’s).
Why would a decent looking, single young bloke like you spend eighty quid on an hour with a prozzie? You might ask. Do the math, as the Americans say. After university, you’re not living cheek-by-jowl with over-sexed teenagers. You have to find a girl and get them interested. They want to be taken out. A meal, a drink, the theatre; drives in the country. There’s flowers, chocolates even clothes. Before you know it, you’ve spent five hundred quid. Then (if you’re lucky) after you’ve slept with them four or five times they decide; sorry very much, you are a good man, but you’re not the one I want to have babies with. That’s over a hundred a fuck and that’s not even guaranteed. I’m saving at least twenty-five percent and a lot of time, and time’s money. It’s simple economics, plus I get an incredible buzz tracking them down.
Susan smiles and draws the curtain right back. I think I see an expression of relief on her face, but that might be my ego. Who knows what fat sweaty pisshead she was expecting?
‘You look cold,’ she says. ‘Would you like a coffee or something.’
I nod. She’s got a slight Welsh accent. Cardiff I reckon. We had some at University. I still remember how they sung, “a co-ffee.”
She comes back holding a tray with black coffee in white cup and saucer. There’s also a matching sugar bowl and little milk jug. She puts it down and sits in an armchair opposite me. I notice she’s undone the two top buttons of her cream lamb’s wool blouse, revealing a little cleavage. This girl’s a clever one, I’m thinking. She isn’t dressed in any way sexy, a simple top and a plain green mid-length skirt, but the two open buttons are doing the trick.
‘Eighty-five pounds wasn’t it?’ I ask.
She blushes. ‘It’s alright. You can pay me when you leave.’
‘I’d rather pay you now.’ Strange, I think. I take out my envelope full of notes.
‘Just leave it on the table.’
‘Aren’t you going to count it?’
‘Oh, I’ll trust you,’ she says and grins.
I put milk and sugar in the cup and stir it. Without thinking, I look at my watch.
‘There’s no hurry, I only ever have one appointment a night.’
I smile. How many during the day? I think.
Almost like she’s read my mind she says, ‘I’m a hairdresser you see. It can be busy in the evening. I never know when I’m going to get home, so I can’t plan ahead.’
This is rare. These women never tell you anything. But I’m looking at this demure, raven haired beauty dressed in Miss Typical Housewife gear and I’m caught off-guard. My curiosity kicks in. I can’t stop myself, and I ask the world’s most lied about question. ‘Why do you do this work, then?’ I can feel myself flinch as I say it.
I’m expecting to be told to shut my face. Instead she says, ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’
‘The usual?’
She smiles at me like I’m an old friend and shakes her head making her dark hair shimmer. She gets to her feet and sits on the couch with me – really close. She puts her hand on my thigh and looks straight at me with her sad hazel eyes. ‘Drink your coffee before it gets cold, love. Then we can go upstairs.’
Yeah, this one’s special.
We’re up in the bedroom. It’s just a bedroom. An ordinary bog-standard IKEA bedroom. Susan tells me to undress and get in bed while she goes to the bathroom. The sheets smell of freshly ironed cotton. She walks in; naked. There’s no fat on her, but she’s not skinny. She has the body of an athlete. Her tits are perfect, no silicone there. She slips under the duvet beside me and hands me a condom - the girls always want you to use their own rubbers - I go to open the capsule.
‘Not yet,’ she says.
‘Okay.’ I put it on the bedside table. She leans over and kisses me. She draws her lips across my chest and bites my right nipple. I jerk. She giggles.
I don’t know how long it’s been: seems like hours. We’re both drenched in sweat. I sit on the side of the bed and remove the condom, taking care not to spill the contents before I knot it. I pull a Johnson’s Baby-Wipe out of the box I see on the table and clean myself up – supposing it’s time to go. My back muscles tense when I feel a finger sliding down my spine and I look round.
She’s laying on her side, her delicious breasts squashing together and part hidden under her damp raven tresses. She smiles and looks up at me with tear filled eyes. ‘There’s no need to rush off, love.’
*****
It’s a quarter to six in the morning and I’m walking along this monochrome orange suburban street looking for my car. It’s still cold and now it’s drizzling. I find it and get in and start the engine. I let it idle while the heater-fan de-mists the glass. I take the piece of paper Megan gave me out of my pocket and read it. Her real name and home number. I can go anytime, no more faffing around. I don’t even have to pay if I don’t want to. I’ll call her when I get home, see if she’s free for the weekend.
By the time I get back it’s getting light. I park the car and stay inside it for a minute. I read Megan’s piece of paper again. I tear it up and throw the confetti out the window. She is special.
But so’s the buzz.
(c) Keith Gingell 2009