Miss Makeover – The Other woman is A Ferrari…

By on July 15, 2010

Happy? Are you? Well then. Doing transformational sex therapy pays the rent and Ecstasy makes me genuinely happy, for a while, while doing me very little harm. Or at least nothing that can’t be fixed by Clomipramine – a kinder, gentler old school Prozac. Check it out! My son is at a good school. I see him in the holidays and at visiting hours. My ex is getting on just fine without me. Never had a moment’s regret. Probably because the house is tidier. And, joy of joys!, my son will not grow up like his mother because…er, depression and addiction genes will magically disappear without my physical presence. That’s sorted then. And my ex moved in his grey-haired crone for mutual massage with whale song on the stereo. Fade up veggie wimp band like Coldplay on the soundtrack for Happy Ending.

Until I kill them both. This isn’t a joke or an idle boast. I need a hitman. Or some poison darts. Or I could hire an obese whore to sit on his head. Which would be non-erotic asphyxiation, a new one for the obituarists.
Geezer Hardnut knows real villains. Very bad men. He just laughs and ignores me when I try to hire a real one. But I’ll find a way. You’ll see.

My mother was a film star. The glamour! The excitement! She was an English rose in feeble sixties comedies, the girlfriend of Berk Dogarde or some other handsome but not especially heterosexual leading man. My mother was not so much a siren, more a Swanee Whistle, or a kazoo. She lasted a few movies as a sort of not quite frigid fiancee, which in those days was enough to set the cinemas on fire.

Although supposedly comedic you’d need a balloon full of nitrous oxide to get sustenance from this thin gruel. You could only tell where the punchlines were from a burbling bassoon or a yakking clarinet. Often there weren’t even punchlines, just some pleasant whimsy, wish fulfillment for an audience who wanted their own disastrous marriages to be light-hearted. I still like her films. Happy couples driving along half empty London streets in open-topped vintage cars. Men in bowler hats. Cheery costermongers waving at happy young married couples. All absolute cobblers, of course, but then so are today’s  serial killer gorefests. Where every sexual encounter leads inexorably to prolonged torture.

My parents’ marriage was as frightfully nice and winsomely jolly as one of her anodyne movies. Apart from my mother’s taste for gin and Teddy Boys. And lorry drivers. And pills to stay awake. And pills to go to sleep. Then some pills to make the daylight shift go a little smoother. She never did get her chemistry experiments right. And her tastes eventually became so depraved my father couldn’t cope. She joined a Gilbert and Sullivan society. Endless renditions of light opera killed off any love or indeed respect my father might once have had. They maintained separate bedrooms, like the Queen and her Greek sailor boy.

My father spent a lot of time in the City of London doing something he hated which paid for my education and a house in Dulwich. They decided to have children very late by the standards of the day. So they were both permanently exhausted and bad tempered. Although it may have been their work or just playing house together. My mother screamed a lot. My father simmered, boiling over once a year, when whisky took the brakes off. He thought valium was for housewives  and the only self-improvement books available in those days were called “Chin up, old man. Crying is for Girls!” or “Pull Yourself Together! You Big Pansy!”.

They sent me to an very expensive extremely religious academy for young ladies where I was taught discipline, with the aid of various implements some of which I now use to make a living. I was taught to be a cold bitch and also to play the flute and the pianoforte well enough to become a galley slave in various West End theatres  till my drug consumption got the better of me.

Child hood trauma? Early on I walked in on my parents having sex. The caterwauling had woken me up. Is that why I’m insane? Maybe it was my marriage that drove me mad. Or maybe it was the divorce. There should probably be more self-help books on how to get divorced. We have far too many on how to meet a partner and get hitched. Let’s face it. Marriage is difficult, divorce is impossible. The cold winds of hatred seem to get chillier as the years go by. Least I’m feeling the cold even if my ex-husband doesn’t seem to mind. Is this ice-age all the more uninhabitable because we were so very much in love? Otherwise it wouldn’t matter. It’s not hard to imagine what a fat, fatuous agony aunt would say. “You have to ‘move on’, lovey.”

I don’t want to ‘move on’. Because of my child. Not because of my husband. If he was to drop dead, retrospectively, it wouldn’t matter. However, ‘moving on’ would mean leaving my son behind. Yet bickering with my treacherous ex means my son will grow up thinking men and women hate each other. Which just isn’t true. Is it?

He has only one flaw. Fast cars. Making a dick  of himself with other plutocrats on a long dangerous road. It’s called the Gumboil rally or something equally silly. They race all day and party all night. It seems to attract posh tarts as well as rich boy racers.

It costs about thirty grand to enter, then you need a Ferrari and a string of five star hotels. They get by on very little sleep despite a great deal of champagne being consumed. It’s just possible some may resort to something stronger than pro-plus to make it to the finishing line. There’s no dope test to worry about. You’re a dope if you entered in the first place.

That’s what he’s doing right now. Risking his neck. Perhaps dipping his wick.
The other woman is a Ferrari.

“You’ll be inundated by public school boys. City guys.” So I was told when I decided to make my pleasure – kinky sex – into a profession. Hearing the words ‘public school’ and ‘city’ I was starting to think big bucks. I hoping to be offered rows of tight, taut buttocks. Which would just require whipping into a frenzy before I vanished clutching handfuls of cash and thoughtful gifts of champagne and jewellery. As usual reality is failing to live up to expectations. I was expecting Hugh Grant lookalikes. I would have settled for bald muscled mutants roughly my age. I get sixty-something ‘boys’ with bellies hanging on their knees and whining subs long past their best. Today’s client is thirty five – actually thirty-five not ‘hopelessly optimistic client thirty-five’ – and still dresses as a schoolboy, presumably having never overcome the horror that he enjoys being caned. I shouldn’t be complaining really. If he overcame this problem he wouldn’t need transformational sex therapists and I would be out of a job. Lad with Lucre has a riverside flat containing a bar with a fine selection of spirits all with their own optics and a monstrous plasma screen. There is no sign of a controlling cunt who wants to redecorate every six weeks. Or move her mother in. In short, and he is not especially large, it’s Lad Heaven. There’s only one problem. He has to pay for sex – even though he is in a meaningful relationship. Perhaps because he is in a meaningful relationship. This man – overgrown boy, really – is relatively young and very comfortably off. He could arrange for the occasional enthusiastic amateur. But is he willing to undergo speed dating, online flirting, staggeringly expensive restaurant meals and sitting through relationship movies and pretending to like them? Perhaps it’s quicker and cheaper to order in sex. Is this so shameful when Captains of Industry and Hollywood film stars do it? Jack Nicholson has always been able to find his own women. So why would he pay for sex workers? “I’m not paying them for showing up. I’m paying for them to leave”. That may sound cold. It is cold. However, whether our parents’ endless proximity-induced bickering was an improvement on this new realism is debatable.

Lad with Lucre is a charming host. So much so that I had quite forgotten why we were till he informs me it’s time to wear his school uniform. My face must have fallen for an instant at this revelation. He’s too smart and good looking to need the uniform as an excuse. However. He’s a management consultant who earns stratospheric amounts of money without having to shove his fingers up strange men’s fundaments. If he wants to be a bald schoolboy then let’s get this show on the road. He wants forty-eight hard cane strokes in units of twelve over about twenty minutes. This is strong medicine. But then he’s already dosed himself with enough MDMA to turn Anne Widdecombe randy.

He can take it. What he will feel like tomorrow is another matter. Beaten, bruised and with a motherfucker of an ecstasy comedown to cope with the day after. When he will be back at work. Yikes. Let’s live in the present, always the best option yet so few people avail themselves of it. If I may dip into my twelve step mantras, perhaps inappropriate while I’m pissed: tomorrow is a mystery, yesterday is the past and today is a gift called the present.

He assumes the position, bent, bare-bottomed. I complement him on his taut, shaven ass for a while before trying a few warm-up strokes. As he’s Scottish, and they feed them broken glass in their porridge up there, he doesn’t want a warm up, just a half bottle of whisky in one, as it were. We’re using one of his thick canes, which impart a restful thump rather than a spiteful sting but even so, this is heavy duty. And those boring dungeon drones Enigma on the stereo aren’t going to help that much. Not against twelve hefty whacks with a thick rattan cane on bare buttocks.

(Memo to the kinky sex community: Enigma is not the only trance music ever made. There are others. Generally given away free with DJ magazines if you don’t know how to rip it off the internet. Still, as it generally puts me in a foul mood, eager for vengeance, perhaps it does serve a purpose.)

He makes no sound. I whisper some mild roleplay admonishment but, as usual these days, I would rather be myself than a bad version of someone else so he’ll have to make to with therapeutic caning rather than a punitive flogging. Time for him to grow up, perhaps? In twenty minutes I have delivered the forty-eight strokes accurately. When he has brought himself to a climax, taking himself in hand turned modestly away, he compliments me on my accuracy. We then get mildly drunk while laughing hysterically at the sort of management-speak he has to use to earn a living. Until I have forgotten what time it is and am wondering whether we should go to a nearby tranny bar, where all manner of stimulants are available. All of a sudden my nostrils need feeding. He looks surprised. “You’re an escort,” he says, reasonably enough. I suddenly feel shameful and pathetic and it’s time to go. The next day I apologise for being a drunk and he laughs it off. I never get another call though because there’s another million escorts advertising, many of them East European, most of them much cheaper and all of them with one significant advantage: it will be the first time.

Geezer is old fashioned in some ways. He won’t use bad language around ladies. Although he’ll use it around me – bloody cheek. I’ve only asked him to find a contract killer. Again. Eventually he stops swearing  and tells me about Svetlana. Geezer Hardnut has done a few genuinely wicked things in his time. So when he tells me not to mess Svetlana Bedny about I have to take it seriously.

“But she’s only a girl,” I say, quoting one of his favourite witticisms. Least I think it’s supposed to be funny. He squares his shoulders once more. Looks past me as if to make sure that the Russian mafia is not about to swoop and then starts speaking very quietly.

“She’s…” He twists his moth into a tight ball, breathes deeply, cracks his knuckles. Finally the muse speaks. “She’s…oooh….vicious! She’s vicious! She’ll follow you anywhere on earth. Never mind the fucking Mounties. She does not rest till she gets her man.”
“Sounds like what I need. I want him dead.”
“I know you do.”
I look at him for a long time. I want this doing. He faces me down. Big, strong and silent. And he knows Svetlana. And she can get my son back. They’d have to give him to me if my ex-husband was dead.
“You don’t look anything like a geezer bird but you act like one sometimes,” he says.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I get things done. Is that what you mean?”
“Sorry,” he says. A man saying sorry? How often does that happen?
He is so sweet.
“You’d better be serious about this,” he says.
“I am,” I tell him. “What type of name is Bedny, anyway?”
“Dunno. Russian, maybe?”
I’ll get him for that. I do the condescending irony, not him.
“I wouldn’t mix business with pleasure if I were you.. She’s…”
He’s screwing his face up again. Looking for the words that will say it as well an another grunting, groaning ‘Ooooh!”.
“Vicious?” I offer.
“No. She’s fierce. Fucking fierce. Just leave it. It’s always more trouble than it’s worth.”
I stare at him. And realise he’s speaking from experience. My boyfriend’s a killer.
I don’t want to tell you this. Because I’m a little ashamed. But I had to have him. Right there. Right then.

A client orgasms and instantly loses his silly, vacant grin. Oh. Fuck. Back here again. I wasn’t sorry to see the high dissipate. Not after a few hours of feverish masturbation and endless wheedled instructions. (‘Squeeze my nipples! Squeeze my nipples!’). The guy was Brazilian, perfectly chiseled physically but a little flabby in the brain. He was however impressively focused on his needs and not shy of communicating them. Occasionally I would tire of squeezing these giant hat pegs as hard as I could. At which point his voice would become whinier and more dictatorial. ‘Squeeze my nipples! Squeeze my nipples!’ Cocaine makes men even more obsessive and annoying, particularly when they are verbalising very familiar fantasies and English is their second language. This one was still young enough to use it to intensify actual sex rather than as a means of revving the wheels without ever getting the engine in gear. He remained hard throughout the afternoon which eventually became too much like hard work. A barmaid pulling pints for a couple of rugby teams would have had an easier time than I did – wrenching away at that tireless truncheon with little effect.

I’m in femme fatale mode currently, raven black hair slicked down and parted perfectly in the middle. But no-one can look cool and elegant while slaving over a hot slave-boy all afternoon. My cheeks may be hollow, my skin cadaver-white, my lips red as a freshly-flayed client. But a glance in one of his many mirrors confirmed that my forehead was covered in what us ladies call perspiration. This was far too much like manual labour.
I became a corrective therapist in order to avoid work and here I am getting hot, sweaty and far too bothered.
Did I abandon a promising career in order to yank men’s privates around? No, I abandoned show business for love. Although my love of illicit chemicals turned into a marriage made in hell. Actually, why don’t I just write ‘turned into a marriage’? It’s hardly a secret any more how these mutual slavery contracts turn out.

Eventually some thick pre-come appeared and I was able to froth it up into a smoothie. It was hard to suppress a heartfelt “Thank Fuck for that!” Earlier on, some slow and clumsy roleplay featuring one of his transgendered personae triggered such an intense fit of boredom in me that he was caned much harder than he should have been.

But then great hulking geezers wanting to be pre-teen convent girls is about as convincing as an episode of Eastenders. I usually persuade clients that a warm up is infinitely preferable to swift and savage brutality but this one deserved punishment rather than pleasure.

Usually it’s possible to trace the severity of a caning by watching red weals blossoming on previously flawless skin. It was hard to know whether I was being too severe and his pain threshold was higher due to drugs. I laid on as enthusiastically as a sexually frustrated nun. Hopefully it would start to hurt when the sex and drug high wore off.

As it was the silly grin stayed all the time we played. Then the orgasm triggered sadness, as it sometimes does. The ‘little death’ is not always fulfillment. For male sex addicts an orgasm means someone’s just run off with your stash. Drug addicts discover anew every day that their alternative reality inexplicably disappears leaving them with some crumpled wraps made out of lottery tickets. A sex addict’s dream dissolves into the uncomfortable reality of the presence of an unsuitable partner.

At least Mr. Hat Peg Nipples, having paid for my services, could discreetly suggest it was time to leave. I had hung around for a good twenty seconds at this point, judging it might be rude to have dashed for the door before he had wiped himself clean but I was already edging towards my clothes and looking forward to an evening gorging myself on Green and Black’s Dark Chocolate with Real Cherries. After a two hour soak in a cleansing bubble bath. And the ritual sticking of pins into my Jeremy Clarkson voodoo doll.

This unpleasant little gargoyle is not an accurate representation of that bigheaded bag of bollocks, just a teddy bear in denims. It’s good to have something to vent your feelings on, as I’m sure all wives will agree. Actually, just getting out of earshot of this guy was going to be a form of orgasmic release for me. Coked up clients and their fantasies on an ever repeating ten second loop can quickly become tiresome.

Perhaps too many orgasms depletes the body of zinc, leaving men listless and depressed. Or may have done once upon a time in China on their lousy rice diet. Maybe this is why Taoists used to think that semen retention was the path to eternal life. The sperm less full body orgasm can be learned in a week, clenching the muscles that stem the flow of urine. Can most men be bothered to learn this? Leave it out, mate! The footy’s on! If you already do Kelvins – male pelvic floor tightening muscle tightening exercises – you will find this easier to master. Who says I hate men? I’m giving away information which will make them happier. Those of them who can read anything other than SAS memoirs or computer manuals…

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