The Oldest Profession
Something a little different this time if you are a regular to my column. If you are new – welcome! Whatever the case dear reader, want to know how I got started in ‘The Business’? Then read on. All will be revealed (and you might want to grab yourself a cuppa…).
The Oldest Profession
A True Story
I wander alone and untamed by my life’s experiences. Blindly stumbling into no-man’s land as my blood-red XR3i convertible chaotically cavorts through the dimly lit suburban streets.
It’s midnight and I’m on my way to my ‘other job’ – the host with the most in a brothel situated in the unlikeliest of villages in sleepy Cheshire, not too far from home but far enough to enable me to keep this a secret. I also work as an escort for an agency, that’s all in addition to my day job as an underpaid skivvy, or care worker if you prefer. I am also a nurse part time for the Health Authority and still earn only just enough to make my rent and put fuel in my car. So when this guy who runs the brothel called me on my work mobile to ask if I’d be interested in doing ‘massage’ for him I jumped straight in. That was several weeks ago and I am beginning to settle in now. It is a world away from the mundane occupations of nursing and care work and although my senses ring out with alarming and increasing regularity: “NO!” I choose to ignore the cry of reason as I hurtle towards my new-found family and let’s face it, right or wrong; I am behind the wheel of a fabulous car.
My new family consists of the best of society’s rejects. There’s Jason the ‘adult baby,’ Jonty the chef, Ben the other “boy” or host, like myself, Derek the milkman who doesn’t actually work at the brothel but he lingered so long once after delivering the milk that he kinda moved in. Oh yes and every brothel wouldn’t be complete without the ‘Madame’ who in this case is an older man called Roy. Roy is a dark and mysterious character with a certain charm to complement his sleazy undertones. He is bald with a long pointy face, crooked teeth and a crackly chest-voice which is mainly a result of too many Marlboro Lights.
The brothel is poignantly placed between a delightful village church and the local funeral home. Discretely nestled in the middle, the building is an old converted coach house with cobbled driveway, whitewashed walls and a stable door leading into the kitchen. It is charming.
As my mean machine pulls into the bumpy driveway my body thrills with excitement. I am distracted from the sickness in my stomach by this longing in my groin. It makes me feel alive.
“Oh hi Matt” welcomes Roy as the door to my exclusive new life opens and beckons me inward.
“Or should we say: C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-A-A-N!” Jason Teases as I walk into the kitchen in a vibrant bubble of nervous energy. ‘Christian’ is my alter-ego, we never use our real names in this business, it helps to keep a professional distance, or at least that’s the left-brain justification anyway. Pretending to be someone else makes us feel like we are stars performing for the adoring crowd – it’s a rush like no other. So I begin preparations for the rush of this evening as it’s a very special night. Tonight Roy is launching a social club at ‘The Cottage’. Punters pay just a fiver to get in and they have free food, wine, music and use of the play room. That’s where guys ‘play’ but it depends very much on your definition. The play room is fully equipped with a sex sling, massage table, latex gloves, whips, chains, cock rings and every size and shape of dildo you could ever imagine. Oh yes and of course there is 24/7 porn played on the TV which is suitably situated facing the table so the punter, sorry I mean client, has a good view when he’s on top of whichever boy he has chosen. The room smells of sex; a musty, pungent mould that cleverly works its way into my psyche, filling me with desire as it thrusts me sharply forward into this other world. The rush of adrenalin helps me to dance more effortlessly within the walls of this darker side to my nature.
I can be anyone I want to be – not everyone can say they have a true alter-ego, a whole other person living within them and living a completely different life. I can.
We are all still gathered in the kitchen as the clients haven’t arrived yet. There’s me, Roy, Jonty, Jason, Ben and a couple of regulars, Daniel and Karl, who always arrive early to try and avoid paying. They make out they are friends instead of clients and it pisses the boys off because Roy never seems to notice. Not that I’m getting paid tonight as it’s my first night in this role so I’m on trial. I have done massages for Roy before, he pays me ten pounds per punter and he pockets thirty five for himself. He says he will give me more when I’m more established. I must do my best because I need the money. I get just enough from the care work, nursing and escorting but I still need more to live on.
I love standing in the kitchen chatting. Jonty always has something on the go in the oven and the room is filled with the smell of security housed within the aroma of roast beef, potatoes or hot pot that gently rises from the range. As I stand here, with the glass of Merlot Roy gave me, talking to the guys surrounding me, I am comforted by the flutter in my abdomen and the tingling round my head and face: “This is how it’s supposed to be” I think to myself as I look on at my family – all guys together laughing and talking shit but knowing deep down that we are all meant to be here in this moment. Troubled souls who collide into this temporary fantasy, trying to get by the best we can.
“Shall we go through to the dining room boys?” Announces Roy as the timer on the oven pings the arrival of tonight’s feast.
We all top up our glasses and make our way to the small but perfectly formed dining room at the end of the hallway, to the right of the kitchen. As I sit at the table, adorned with shiny silver cutlery and beautiful candelabra as the centrepiece, I chuckle inside as I think where we would be if we’d turned left out of the kitchen – that’s the playroom, which leads onto the dungeon, bunkroom and dark room. If only people outside knew what goes on here. The place was raided once by the police but that’s another story.
As we all settle down in our designated seats – Roy at the end, Jonty at the other and the ‘boys’ placed on display around the table so all guests have equal access, the door bell rings and Jason rushes to answer it.
WOW! My heart leaps and genitals stir as in walks ‘the army guy’ Conner. He’s straight, apparently, but he makes a bee-line for me and plonks himself very close, so his thigh is touching mine. I calmly and politely say:
“Hi mate. Welcome to the Cottage”. My mouth dries, lips chap, heartbeat thickens and fastens and I desperately want to lean over and kiss him. I refrain.
As the evening progresses more clients turn up throughout the meal and are welcomed enthusiastically by Roy and insincerely by me as all I am now interested in is Conner. I dream about him asking me on a date, taking me on holiday and holding me in his big strong arms. I am suddenly aware of Roy’s unhealthy stare into my guilt. He’s spotted I am showing more attention to one guest and that is against the rules.
“Why don’t you take Damien into the play room Christian?” Roy bosses me as my hand lowers discretely under the table to stroke Connor’s leg.
“Erm, I haven’t finished my dinner yet.” I shyly say, noticing a familiar rampant thump in my chest. I feel consumed with guilt and fear, as if I’ve done something very wrong but desperately wanting to have some alone time with my new man.
“Anyway” Jason interrupts “Christian is far more interested in a certain army boy!” To my surprise, Conner, who has previously been very quiet until now, turns to me and says:
“So how about it then?” as he knowingly turns to Roy with a nod, as if he realises that as a paying guest he has the final say.
“Ok. Off you go then and suck his cock.” Roy flippantly says as he gives in.
Both Conner and I simultaneously rise from the table, taking our wine glasses with us.
As we both nervously stand outside Conner’s night-blue Ford Focus, occasionally taking a jittery sip from our glasses, Conner again tells me he’s straight and asks if we can sit and “talk” in his car. He didn’t want to go to the play room so I suggested we go for a walk instead and this is as far as we got.
“Okay” I say as he pushes the electric remote to open the doors. I land into the inviting leather bucket seats and wonder what he will say to me. Maybe he will take me for a drive, or gently kiss me or hold my hand. Maybe he will say that he wants to have a relationship with me. My heart is beating so fast now, I can taste his kiss already and the smell of his aftershave is planted deep in the pit of my secure dreams. He is wearing a trendy woolen jumper, grey with ecru stitching, dark grey jeans and I can just make out his leather belt with a huge silver buckle on it. His package is big, bulging and a perfect rounded shape, as I place my hand tentatively on his thigh, I notice his bulge moving. This brings a sense of warmth to my own loin and makes me realise that I must be very special to turn him on like this. He must like me.
“Wanna suck me off?” he says as he unbuttons his Levi’s. I ignore my sadness and sinking feeling in my stomach. I just go down.
“Oh man! Oh fuck!” I fill my emptiness with Conner’s manhood as he groans. He quickly adjusts the driving seat so I have more room to perform my duty. Although I can’t pretend I am not feeling used, I still have this exotic rush shooting from my perineum straight into my lips that are now vibrating around his desperate phallus. It’s like a drug.
“Oh don’t stop! Don’t stop!” He shrieks. God this is just like the movies. I never heard a guy shout so loud before. The girls he’s had must have been shit. I have a great technique you see, it’s kinda a natural gift I have. My ego takes over to remind me how great I am at this and I bring him to a magnificent climax as his hot creamy liquid erupts into me. For a split second I hesitate but then realise that I always swallow.
With the job done, I lean back into my warm seat and he says “Cheers” as he quickly buttons himself up. I hand him my card with my number on and say I’d like to see him again. Note to self… this isn’t a date: stupid! But I really would like to see him again so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose and he definitely had a good time so maybe he will call. I hope so. Conner says he will come back inside in a minute and I kiss his cheek, trying not to notice his flinching and I return to the family in the dining room. I wait alone as they must have all gone to the dungeon or playroom. He doesn’t return.
Fuck it, who gives a shit anyways? I follow the sounds of pissed giggling and innuendo and find my family all in the bunkroom getting it on. Now the bunkroom is a themed room, based on every gay man’s and some straight women’s fantasy – army barracks full of testosterone-fuelled men who haven’t had sex for weeks. It is kitted out with two plasma TV screens showing porn, two huge bunk beds with each level big enough for four people, camouflage netting on the ceiling and the walls have paintings and murals of army boots, semi-naked guys in army gear and the walls are also lined with green metal lockers on two sides. There is a table under the TV screens which is just like a picnic bench that you would find in a park, only it’s painted green to resemble the benches you’d see in a locker room or gym. The lighting is typical of the rest of the cottage – red and green. It adds to the ambience of sleaze, debauchery and public toilet sex. Works quite nicely I think.
As always, Roy is standing charge telling people what to do and who to do it to. By this point everyone is naked, there are a few new faces that weren’t at dinner and Ben is tied face down to the bench. Roy is stood giggling with a pot of chocolate body paint in his hand:
“Eat his ass Christian” Roy orders as he plasters Ben’s buttocks and fifty pence piece with the sweet feast. Not having time to respond, thank fuck, Damien ploughs in and starts to eat the brown substance from Ben’s hole. Not one of the guys has a bona and I wonder just how sexy this scenario is.
“We’ve all got brewer’s droop” Roy excuses as he sees me glancing downward as I mentally and physically scan the group for any sign of arousal. Yeah, Roy’s gatherings are often non-starters, so I’ve heard but I need the money and I need to impress him if he’s to take me on as a full time boy here. Just as I disrobe and throw my clothes down to the cold, green painted concrete floor Bill, the local farmer, walks over to me. He is forty two but looks about thirty with an amazing masculine physique. He has a perfect triangular shape from his shoulders to the waist and right now his cock is not hard but definitely, as a very pretty woman once said “has potential.” He winks at me as he walks by, turning his head to look at me as he passes. I know he wants me to follow him and without hesitation, after all this is what I am here for, I follow him into the bathroom where I lock the door behind me. Well I’ve already broke the rules once tonight so I know Roy’s gonna give it to me tomorrow anyways. We start kissing and I feel a turgid presence pressing into my own manly reminder. I drop to my knees as if on auto pilot and to my pleasure Bill pulls away, gently stroking my face and guides me back to standing. My body is warm and I never felt so much blood rush to my shaft before. I feel whole and strong as we both collapse to the floor of the bathroom, clumsily wedged between the toilet and sink. I am now on top of him gently yet passionately writhing against his tanned torso, my smooth chest tickling and giggling as his soft brown down brushes next to me. Fuelled by lust, loneliness and Merlot I am consumed with the heat of the moment as I find myself sliding deep into him. We do not speak. It just happens. Neither of us mentions the need for wearing a condom. He wants me and I want him – and now we have each other.
We emerge sheepishly from the bathroom after our heated liaison. Neither of us climaxed but it didn’t seem to matter. I want to hold his hand as we walk back into the bunk room but he goes over to join the others, occasionally giving me a cheeky glance. So I remind myself of my role here tonight and Roy must notice my flirtation as he leads me to the bottom bunk of the bunk bed and pushes me down onto the khaki mattress as he climbs on top of me. The other boys join in and we all cavort in a group sex act of plastic proportions. No one is truly aroused and I feel absent in my presence. I have naked bodies all around me; everyone seems to be touching me at the same time. Jason leans over me and whispers that I have a face like a porcelain doll:
“You look so perfect. I’m afraid to touch you in case you break.” He says as I hold him closer and he rests his head upon my chest whilst the others seem to fall silent as they limply stroke each other in drunken lethargy.
“I love you” Jason whispers as he squeezes tighter with his arms around my naked waist, snuggling his face further into my neck. A chasm of sadness opens up as I hold this broken little boy in my arms. I have only known him a short time, the few weeks I’ve been popping into the Cottage to introduce myself and do the occasional massage, but I know so much about him. He was put in a care home at eleven and was forced to have anal sex with the manager and the staff. He said he “loved it” and that he was the “slut of the home” but the cold blood running through my veins tells me that is just his way of coping. His other coping mechanism is embroiled in his life as an adult baby. Adult babies shave all their body hair, wear nappies, soil themselves and play with baby toys and eat rusks. All the usual stuff a baby does, obviously. Some babies will have ‘parents’ to change their nappies and take care of them. Jason has another baby friend he chats too on the internet and they are both looking for parents at the moment. Roy understands Jason and his needs so he is making a cot for him and has already decorated Jason’s room with Noddy wallpaper and mobiles. Jason feels at home here and loves being allowed to finally be himself now he is twenty eight. Me; I want to help him into therapy and ask him more about what exactly being an adult baby does for him. But I don’t do either.
As I lay here, in the dark with men all around me I cannot sleep. Jason is still asleep on my chest and I suddenly have the urge to run. Run anywhere. So despite being several glasses of wine over the limit, I gently slide my now cold moist body from under Jason and get dressed, grabbing whatever clothes are nearest. I let myself out, making sure the door locks from the outside and hesitate for a second or two. I fear that I am locking myself out of my home but still desperately wanting to run away.
I jump into the car and make my way down the by-pass towards the sleepy town that I now live in, remembering that I have work at eight in the morning for the care agency, an old lady I help to get dressed and make breakfast for. Although tired, drunk and cold with fear I am still charged with sex. I want sex and I want it now. I slowly drive down the by-pass and notice a lay-by with just one dim light reluctantly illuminating the darkest corner. I pull in with this thumping need still taking me over and turn off the lights and car engine. My eyes rapidly search into the darkness for signs of life, the glance of a stranger, the look of lust but nothing. I open the car door and swing my legs round as I unbutton my jeans and start to masturbate frantically. I can feel a sweaty, smelly sensation all over. I am blind yet fully alert knowing that if a passing police car saw me I’d be in big trouble but I am beyond caring and so I abuse myself until at last I am relieved of the night’s burden. Post-ejaculation paranoia takes over so I take the back lanes back home to avoid a possible run-in with the police. I stumble into the quant terraced cottage I’m renting and clamber into bed fully clothed, still wearing the ‘Slave’ T-shirt I quickly grabbed on my way out of the brothel.
It hardly seems a minute since my head hit the pillow for a drunken sleep when the alarm bellows in my ear. I stay in bed far longer than I should and am an hour late to get Annie up and ready. I’m not bothered because she lives alone and no-one will know I’ve been late. She’s a dolly mixture short of a quarter anyway. I pull up outside her cute little bungalow in a small village in Cheshire, very close to the medieval town I now live in and look for the key under its usual hiding place under the wheelie bin. It’s not there. I go to the back door which leads into the kitchen and there’s a woman of around forty stood there, staring at me through the window with glaring eyes:
“Yes. Can I help you?” She storms, eyeing me up and down with a cutting distaste.
“I’m the carer, come to get Annie up.” I say wearily through my dry lips and alcohol fumed breath.
“Well you’re late! And I’ve already got her up!” She snaps. She is intently staring at my white grubby T-Shirt with ‘SLAVE’ splattered across the front in big black letters as I try to jolly her up and say the office gave me the wrong time to come, unconvincingly.
I go through into the living room where Annie is nibbling on her toast with marmalade, the room smells of moth balls and piss. Annie is wearing a turquoise dress with horrid pink flowers on.
“Morning Annie!” I force as I make even more excuses for my bedraggled state:
“Ooh what are they like in the office Annie? They told me nine o’clock today and I’ve been on a night shift too.” Well let’s face it I have been on a night shift. She does her usual grunt at me and continues to fill her miserable face with her new servant’s morning offering and I tell her I’ll see her later.
The stern prissy women who I assume is Annie’s daughter continues to look at me as if I’m some alien from planet scum as I briskly walk passed her and swiftly exit back to my gorgeous car.
I’m back home in no time and safely snuggled back into bed. No fucking point doing this crap job anyways, I only get a pound per visit. I’m supposed to go back at lunch time but I don’t wake up till gone four. Whoops.
I stumble down my wobbly stairs in this old dairy house, situated next to the sub post office which is run by Hyacinth and Donald, the nosiest neighbours known to man. The stairs lead straight into the dining room which is so tiny it’s more like a parlour. It is an odd triangular shape with a brick fireplace and real fire grate. When I’ve got enough money for the coal, I like to spend evenings gazing into the flames, toasting bread and lazing on the mud-brown carpet. It is deep pile and very warm but it stinks of cat piss. It’s okay though and I love living in a cottage, I feel dead grown up.
I flick the play messages button on the answering machine as I walk towards the kitchen to make a coffee. There’s a message from the care agency I work for: “Hello Matt it’s Sharon, I’ve just had Annie’s daughter on the phone and I’m afraid she’s made a complaint…” I run to the machine and press delete with an incredible surge of “fuck it” anger. FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT! Trying to ignore this inner sense that I’ve let people down and distracting myself from the reality of neglecting another human being. Abandoning my feelings of guilt, I become arrogant, cocky and aloof. I go to the living room window and peer out through the small-town net curtains at my gleaming pride and joy sat opposite, parked partly on the pavement because the road is so narrow. Yes. She’s still there so everything must be okay. I take one last glance at my safety anchor, my gleaming XR3i Convertible before I ascend the stairs to iron my Nurses’ uniform, powder blue with white epaulettes, ready for the six to ten shift for my other ‘mainstream’ job.
And they say only woman can multi task.
© Matt Chase All Rights Reserved
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