by Julian Clary
As time went by I realized I was special. This is no place for modesty — I was a terrific fuck. Even gruff, dominant men couldn’t conceal their admiration of my body and the delights it offered. Their eyes gave them away. More-expressive punters went into raptures over my genitals. ‘I’ve heard of the Crown Jewels but this is like winning the lottery!’ declared one, before diving in to enjoy his prize.
My beautiful face inspired others, who turned it to the light as if it was a piece of crafted Viennese crystal.
I prided myself on the pleasure I gave my punters, no matter what physical attributes they brought to the party. The appearance of an employer didn’t concern me: if he was pig ugly, it gave my performance greater value. A doctor who resuscitates the dying gains greater professional kudos than the one who cures a headache with junior aspirin.
Outside work, I had no desire to enter into a relationship — in fact, I wasn’t capable of it. I was still in love with Tim, who seemed to hover over me like some kind of holy spirit.
Since he had dumped me so cruelly in the summerhouse nearly three years before, I had progressed from the hurting and the longing to acceptance of our separation. I put him out my mind as much as I could, although I sometimes wondered what he was doing. His time at Cambridge would almost be over — perhaps he would make his way to London to take up some respectable career suitable for the heir of Thornchurch House. Sometimes I imagined meeting him by chance, in a tube carriage, a café or shop, but he had lived for so long in my imagination now that seeing him in the flesh would have scared me.
Instead, I kept the memory of Tim hidden, taking it out to treasure when I was alone. I trained myself to feel a cold indifference to any emotional stirrings when I met new people. I had confidence now, born of my skill as a prostitute, and found it easy to meet men who desired me for myself and didn’t expect to pay for it. When I wasn’t fucking professionally, I went to bars and clubs, then home with men who were eager to attempt more than a one-night stand, but I always got rid of them pretty swiftly. And even if, despite myself, I was attracted to someone, the sensation evaporated if he referred to his feelings. A bit of rapture, an occasional heartfelt compliment or plain old-fashioned expressions of lust were acceptable, but if there was a whiff of neediness or a hint of a meaningful stare it was curtains, I’m sorry to say.
As for declarations of love — they were most unwelcome. Any revelations of this nature caused a tickle at the back of my throat that was part suppressed laughter and part nausea. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I didn’t want to know. Love had caused me enough pain, thank you very much. Not only that, my love for Tim still had me in its grip and there was nothing left for anyone else.
I came to prefer my encounters with my clients. They paid for my time, so I was prepared to indulge any fantasy — even a romantic one. If they wanted to talk about love, that was fine by me because it was only an act. My body was their plaything and I would absorb their emotions with brilliantly disguised indifference.
But I had one little habit that had started during my very first encounter with Assam. My last words to every customer were always ‘Remember me.’ The punter never heard them — often they were asleep. I muttered them quietly under my breath as a parting gift.
‘Remember me,’ I would say, as I left another businessman snoring on his hotel bed, his great naked body supine on the duvet.
‘Remember me,’ I entreated the whimpering little man I had flogged to three different sorts of orgasm.
‘Remember me,’ I whispered, as I broke free of the loving married man who wanted to leave his wife and family for me.
If they remembered me, perhaps Tim did too. Maybe somewhere he was thinking of how great and indestructible our love had seemed. Did he ever recall our embraces, our love, and that it had felt like the most perfect, pure thing in the world?
‘Where are you off to this afternoon, Cowboy?’ asked Catherine.
‘I’ve taken the day off. Got to recharge the batteries. I’ve been fucked fifty ways in the last two days and, boy, do I need to recover. My fanny’s like cake mix. Fancy a face pack and some cranberry juice?’
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. It’s my Barnes afternoon. I won’t be late back, though.’
‘Oh, yes. Your dear old queen.’
‘Sammy.’
‘Can’t let him down. He might be dead soon. Cornering the market in senior citizens, aren’t you?’
‘The market is there to be cornered. Sammy’s one of my favourites. One of my best. And he’s promised me a little surprise today.’
‘Maybe he’s going to shit himself.’
‘Sammy’s not the sort. He’s a gentleman. And very educated. He taught me what talaria are. Do you know what talaria are?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘Talaria, I’ll have you know, are the little wings you see on the feet or ankles of the fleet-footed messenger god Mercury. And sometimes Perseus and Minerva.’
‘Thank you, Stephen fucking Fry,’ said Catherine.
In the early days, when I advertised in the trashy gay magazines, I was hired by all sorts. It was a tricky business: time-wasters, telephone-wankers and false-address-givers were commonplace. I learnt quickly to value my regulars.
Older queens soon became my preferred clientele. They had used such services before and appreciated my superior ministrations, the pride I took in my work and the seemingly genuine satisfaction I displayed. I didn’t sigh or even appear to notice if they couldn’t achieve an orgasm, and I greeted premature ejaculation with celebration.
Sammy was one such client. He phoned me one day and I liked his voice at once: he sounded gentle, well-spoken and polite. ‘Might I possibly bother you to visit me at home?’ he asked, after the preliminaries were over, lowering his voice as if someone might overhear such an improper suggestion.
‘I’d be glad to. Where do you live?’
‘Eighteen Castlenau Gardens, Barnes.’
‘Lovely,’ I said, writing it down. ‘Any preferences? Shall I bring anything special with me?’
‘Oh, no, no, no. I’m very easily pleased. All straightforward and no nonsense. Just bring yourself. Tomorrow afternoon might be convenient?’
‘I’ll see you about three, Sammy.’
The following day, a dreary Friday in February, I rang the doorbell of a red-brick mansion block, with a faded 1930s glamour, and Sammy buzzed me in, then opened the door to his ground-floor flat. He was a tall man who stooped, as so many tall men do, and I put him in his late sixties. He had kindly eyes and a full head of silvery hair.
‘It’s very good of you to come,’ he said, with a shy smile.
I followed him down the corridor, registering his pressed corduroy trousers and the welcome fact that he seemed sober, not psychotic. He led me into a clean but cluttered kitchen-diner and asked if I’d like a drink.
‘Just some tap water; please,’ I answered.
‘I guess you’ve done this sort of thing before?’ he enquired, then sneezed nine times in rapid succession.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, then immediately sneezed another seven times. ‘You’re not wearing Angel, are you? It has a very unfortunate effect on me.’
‘Yes. I am. Terribly sorry.’
‘I’m the same with strawberries. You’d better have a shower while I clear my passages.’
Somehow this unexpected drama relaxed us.
‘That’s better,’ said Sammy, when I walked naked out of the shower, rubbing my hair with a faded peach towel.
‘I suppose it’s one way of getting my clothes off,’ I said, presenting myself to my clearly appreciative client.
‘Most acceptable,’ he said, in a deep, syrupy voice. ‘Now come and lie down.’
The next hour went by perfectly pleasantly. His sexual demands were very straightforward, his kind eyes clouded only momentarily with lust. I gave of my heart and soul, as always, and the job was done in twent
y minutes. After that, we sat chatting easily over cups of tea in his sitting room until my time was up. Sammy counted out my money in twenty-pound notes, adding two extra ‘for your trouble’.
As he showed me out, he enquired, ‘Would you be available again next week? Same time?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. A repeat booking was always a compliment. I had warmed already to this polite, generous old man and felt that the weekly hour would be an oasis of calm in my otherwise frenetic diary.
I was right. Sammy was the ideal client. He was intelligent enough to know that our relationship was fuelled only by the financial transaction, which allowed him to enjoy his time with me without fear of rejection. We understood each other, the deal was mutually agreeable, and neither of us had any complaints.
‘Everyone should have a JD in their life,’ he mused one afternoon, a few months into our arrangement. ‘You fulfil all of my needs, and I adore you.’
I learnt that Sammy was a retired English literature teacher and that, while modest and unassuming, he was proud of his silver thatch. ‘Quite a feature, my barnet, in the sixties. I had long hair before the Beatles.’ He seemed to be at one with his life, enjoying a comfortable retirement, busy with bowls, bridge and an active social life. But occasionally he felt the need of youthful company and sexual release. Booking me was the way he got it, and it seemed perfectly sensible, as far as I was concerned. I looked forward to my Friday afternoons.
‘You’re fond of that old man, aren’t you?’ said Catherine, as I got ready for my trip to Barnes.
‘Sammy’s as sweet as apple pie.’
‘Bit of a father figure for you, perhaps?’
‘There’s no need for that kind of talk. Ours isn’t a father—son relationship. More like a dear old uncle with fuck privileges.’
‘Just don’t waste too much time on him, that’s all. I’ve spent all the time I ever want to waiting on the elderly. Most of them are as tight as a choirboy’s arse. Now get going or you’ll be late.’ Catherine shooed me away, obviously keen to have the fiat to herself.
When I arrived in Barnes, Sammy let me in as usual but instead of letting me lead him to the bedroom straight away, as he normally did, he sat down in the sitting room and gestured to me to do the same.
Was he calling a halt to our arrangement? I wondered, surprised. Or was he about to attempt something unconventional on the hearth-rug?
‘Now, JD, do you remember what I said the other week —about how everyone should have a JD in their lives?’ he began.
‘Yes,’ I said warily.
‘Well this week, out of the kindness of my heart, I’d like you to visit my dearest friend, my neighbour, Georgie. Would you mind awfully?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘He’s my oldest and best friend. He lives next door and we call each other sisters. A visit from you would do him the world of good. I’ve been worried about him lately. We’ve both been struggling with the ageing process, you know, but I fear it’s been worse for Georgie. We were cruising companions when we were younger, and we know absolutely everything there is to know about each other. We were lovers very briefly when we first met —for about five minutes — and then became friends, helping and supporting each other through the trials and pains of love and life.’
‘I could do with a friend like that,’ I said, rather envious.
‘Oh, yes, Georgie’s the tops, he really is. But we’re beginning to realize that the excitement is pretty much over for us. The thing is, though, we still have that gnawing itch for sexual happenings —it’s just that the gay scene doesn’t seem to want us any more. We’re too old, washed up, finished. No, no, we are, JD.’ Sammy put up a hand to silence me as I tried to protest. ‘Imagine — we were once spoilt for choice, the toast of the underground gay world, and now … Well, we’ve been put out to pasture. At first we tried to outstay our welcome, lingering in the pubs and clubs, but eventually the snubs became too difficult to bear. We turned to videos, but there’s only so much excitement you can get from those.
‘In my opinion, sex is an area of life that has to be dealt with as any other, if a man is to stay healthy and sane. That was when I made the decision to hire boys like you, JD, just as I might a housekeeper or an accountant. And it was the best I ever took! ‘‘Thank you, Sammy, I’m glad I’ve been worthwhile.’
‘You’re most welcome. And that’s why I’d like to ask you if you’d be terribly kind and consider offering your services tonight to dear Georgie instead of me. He’s a bit livelier than I am, if you know what I mean, but he’s a darling.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ I said, rather moved by the account of the friendship between the old men. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Right next door. There’s the beauty of it. We’ve been neighbours for thirty years. If I knock three times he knows I’m on my way over.’
‘How convenient. Well — show me the way!’
‘Excellent, excellent. Oh, Georgie will be pleased! And perhaps you’ll call in later and tell me how it went?’ Sammy’s eyes were sparkling.
‘Will do.’
I left Sammy’s, stepped over the flowerbeds to the front door of number sixteen and pressed Georgie’s buzzer, as instructed. The door opened within two seconds. Georgie was a rotund, balding little man of around seventy who had clearly not enjoyed Sammy’s blessings in the looks department. He wore blue linen trousers with a short-sleeved white shirt, also linen, and smiled nervously as he stood behind the door. ‘You must be JD,’ he said.
‘And you must be Georgie. Very pleased to meet you.’
‘Come in, my dear.’
We went into a flat laid out in exactly the same way as Sammy’s, but the opposite way round. It was strange to be somewhere that felt so familiar yet looked so different. It took me only a moment to realize that Georgie had lived a theatrical life — the sitting-room walls were covered with black-and-white portraits of past theatre stars, many of them autographed — ‘To darling Georgie, for making me look so fabulous! Much love, Vivien’ — and framed posters of West End shows from the fifties and sixties.
‘I was a dresser,’ Georgie said, watching me observe his photographs. ‘I did all the big theatres, all the great shows. I had quite a following. Yul Brynner wouldn’t let anyone else take his trousers off, you know.’
I laughed. ‘Talking of taking off our trousers … shall we?’
I went up to Georgie, whose eyes became a little more bulbous and cheeks a little pinker as I approached. He smelt of aftershave, gin and toothpaste, for which I was grateful. A happy, clean punter was always a relief in my line of work: BO and smegma were hazards so difficult to cope with that I would make my excuses and a hurried exit.
(On the other hand, if someone with a fetish requested it, I could arrive sweaty and unwashed for their delectation. A nose would be thrust into my groin or my armpit. Sigh would follow sniff For a while I sold my own soiled underwear to this specialized group in sealed plastic bags. A lucrative and surprisingly popular sideline.)
‘Oh, yes, please …‘ sighed Georgie, obviously thrilled, and we went to his bedroom at once.
On that first occasion, the sex would not have been classed as kinky. When he pulled off my boxer shorts he murmured, ‘Oh, happy day …’ but I knew Georgie wanted more than was on the conventional gay-sex menu. I could tell almost at a glance the client who wanted it rough and the one who preferred vanilla.
‘JD, you’re manna from heaven,’ Georgie declared, after forty wholesome minutes of wrestling, pumping, jerking and, finally, satiation.
‘I might put that on my calling card,’ I said. ‘Delighted to have been satisfactory.’
‘Oh, you were, you were. Sammy’s been a very naughty girl, keeping you to himself for so long. I only managed to wiggle out of him what he’s been up to when I saw you leaving last week —the wicked miss! Of course, it’s shaming to have to pay for it. In his time Sammy’s been wooed and won by lords and bishops, ‘Georgie confided, ‘and I�
�m no stranger to the armed forces. We have tales between us that would have you panting like a queen in a lorry park.’
‘I can well believe it,’ I said, pulling on my clothes.
‘I take it you cater for … all tastes?’ Another little blush crept over Georgie’s fat cheeks.
‘Oh, yes. All tastes.’
‘Goody! Then perhaps we could come to an arrangement … I’d love to do this again, you see, and if you’re coming to see Sammy anyway … perhaps you could pop next door for a little rough-and-tumble with me afterwards?’
‘I don’t see why not. As long as I do Sammy first.’ Sammy’s impatience to reach his climax would mean I’d have a good half-hour to recover my resources — I had a feeling I’d need them with Georgie.
‘Then here’s your money — cheap at the price!’ Georgie handed me a roll of notes. ‘And I’ll see you next week, you gorgeous thing.’
‘Thank you. Until next week, Georgie.’ He closed the mahogany door behind me.
I stood three inches from it. ‘Remember me,’ I whispered.
‘Did Georgie enjoy himself?’ Sammy said anxiously, his head poking out of his front-room window.
‘Yes, he did. In fact, he wants the same again next week.’
‘Oh.’ Sammy’s face fell. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do both of us … I’ve got so used to our Friday-afternoon encounters and I’m such a creature of habit.’
‘You underestimate me, Sammy,’ I said gravely. ‘I’m perfectly happy to look after both of you. Stamina is one of my selling points.’
Sammy smiled gratefully. ‘I’m so pleased! How lovely. Now we can all be friends together.’
The next time I went to Barnes, I spent the first hour with Sammy and the second with Georgie. This time, Georgie wanted me to tie him up and bite his neck. Just as Sammy had hinted, Georgie was much more adventurous than his friend.
As time went by, we fell into a routine. I visited Sammy first, as he was the least demanding. He rarely lasted long, I gave him a cuddle, we had a cup of tea together, I collected my cash and my thoughts, then popped next door to Georgie.
