Adventures of a London Call Boy

by Ben Franckx

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

He's the accidental gigolo. Young and good-looking, he can be your Mr Darcy ... for a fixed fee. Jobless and down on his luck, Argentinean actor Francesc, or Cesc to his friends, needs to find quick cash. His best friend, Celeste, an occasional artist and part-time model with too much time on her hands, starts him internet dating and soon he finds a world of casual sex. When a date offers him cash for sex, he realises there's money to be made from his natural assets and a call-boy career is only a step away. Cesc narrates the story of his career and the tricks of the trade with wit and dry humour. Part ingénue, part cynic, he leads the reader on a tour through the glamour and sleaze of life selling sex to rich female pleasure seekers. Set in modern London, Adventures of a London Call-Boy is a witty and cosmopolitan novel for aficionados of light erotic fiction which crosses over into general fiction. Ben Franckx lives and works in Leeds. He has published a non-fiction book, translations of poetry, and reviews for national newspapers. He has also edited print and online publications. For many years he worked behind the bar at a London pub. Ben Franckx is a pseudonym.

Release date: July 10, 2009

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 208

Sample

Chapter One

It was a complete accident that I became a gigolo. In fact, I don’t even like the word. ‘Gigolo’ sounds kitsch, like we’re stuck in the Seventies, and makes me sound like I should have a greasy ’tache (I don’t). ‘Male prostitute’ sounds a bit too much like I’m up before a judge, and ‘rent-boy’, well, the rainbow village got there first, and I wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

‘Call boy’, or ‘call guy’, is much better, and if I’m ever asked to provide a job title that’s probably what I’ll pick. But most of the time, it simply needs a woman to call up and ask me, ‘You fuck for money, right?’

Sometimes I’ll reply, sometimes just a nod you can’t see. The result, of course, is always the same.

‘Uh huh. If that’s how you want to put it.’

So I’ll be honest with you: I’m not particularly boastful about my recent career change but I’m not ashamed about it either. But let’s just say that if you introduce me to your friends, please don’t start by saying, ‘Hey, this is Cesc, he sleeps with women on a fixed-fee basis.’ Unless you say it quietly and with the possibility of some work as a result.

It was my friend Celeste who came up with the fixed-fee thing. I’d wanted to have a scale, based on whether I found the lady in question attractive or not. Sorry, that should be ‘client’, because this is a service industry, after all. But Celeste insisted that would be discriminatory and, what was worse, customers might talk to each other. It would be terrible to discover that your paid shag charged extra because the job was less enjoyable and even worse for me if one of them ever confronted me over variable charges.

What I do have rates for is different services. It’s fairly simple now but at the beginning I had no idea. You know there’s no City & Guilds for male sex workers.

Just sex, I would say, is generally affordable. Obviously travel and any expenses are extra, and it’s by the hour, give or take five minutes or so. Orgasms aren’t priced, which is not to say that they’re priceless. I’ve just never got round to quantifying: would a multiple bucking bronco oral-cum cost more than a knee-trembler from behind, for example? Generally I always come, at least once, and indeed quite a few clients seem to enjoy the visibility of the male orgasm. I never realised that some women get their sex education from porn too.

There are no surcharges for characters, fantasies or disguises: it’s considered part of the service. If you want to be possessed by an Italian count or ravished by Mr Darcy, I can oblige, although the accents, well, you can take or leave them. I do Spanish well, for reasons I’ll explain as we go along.

Dates take longer and are therefore more expensive, but sex is guaranteed. I give a discount for a full night but generally women don’t really want to wake up with hired staff like me. One bonus is a guaranteed good night’s sleep, if you want it, or guaranteed no sleep if you don’t.

I have also in the past given discounts for group bookings. I would do so again.

So in many respects, it’s a very pleasant job. Like I said, it’s a fixed fee, and generally work, or Janes or Jennies as some of them rather jokingly call themselves, gets to me by word of mouth. I don’t just do sex (in all its varieties), either; I’m presentable, charming, so I’m told, dress well, and can be relied upon to fake knowledge of a number of different professions, so can also be hired for weddings, work dos and, on one occasion, a funeral. I look good in black, OK.

Why do I do it? The sex is obviously an advantage. A very cynical friend of mine, a guy called Archie, occasional frequenter of lady prostitutes, argued that he might as well pay up front as in the end it worked out cheaper. You pay for it one way or another, he argued, whether she’s a whore or not. But I take a professional approach: your pleasure is my aim, and if you enjoy it, then I enjoy it. If mutual predilections happen to coincide, that’s simply happy chance.

The good thing about being a professional is that women always make an effort. I guess it’s because they’re paying. Grey knickers, stray pubes, chewed nails all go out of the window: when they’re buying you get agent provocateur, smooth waxed stripes and Brazilians, French manicures, the works. Some women, it seems, go to very great trouble. One client had herself shaved into a ‘C’, just for me. I was impressed.

The other advantage is the independence: I don’t have a boss, although I think that Celeste has secretly been trying to manage my business on the sly. My efforts are paid in cash (shh, don’t tell anyone, OK). I can work pretty much when I want, although, as you’d guess, most of the real business goes on at night. But you’d be surprised. I’ve graced a handful of offices with my services during the day, disguised as a client for a secret hush-hush meeting, ahem, over the office table. I guess it shows the way the world is changing: women aren’t ashamed to spend money on what they want, and guaranteed good sex is high on the list. Luckily, that’s where I come in.

I should probably also mention that the work is pretty much seasonal. In my two years or so at it – excuse the expression – I’ve noticed the way the job tends to ebb and flow. The summer months generally aren’t so busy. I guess that women look their best with all the tanning, gymming and waxing they do for the summer. The sun and the sundresses get guys’ peckers up, and the girls go away for racy weeks of sand and sex. So there’s less need for my trade. But once the clocks have gone back and entertainment is reduced to drinking with the girls or white wine in front of the TV, it seems that I come into demand to provide some fun for those lonely nights. I guess I’m a bit like buying a new vibrator for the evening, only with batteries included and wrapped precisely how you want. All of which is a way of saying that if you call me in February, you may have to wait a few days.

I suppose I should tell you a bit more about me but I’m afraid that will have to wait for the moment.

Chapter Two

After some assignments, I have to ask myself whether this is worth the trouble or not. I mean of course it is, but it’s not always as easy as you might think. I’ll give you an example.

I’d had a call from a landline – curious in itself, I thought, as mobiles are the way things work in this game – while I was enjoying a coffee with Celeste on the Parkway. She’s an artist and part-time model, which basically means she is quirkily sexy, has too much time on her hands and has a mysterious private income.

‘Sorry Cel, this looks like work,’ I said, excusing myself and sitting back in my wooden chair.

‘I hear you fuck for money,’ said the educated female voice on the other end of the line.

‘Hmmhmm,’ I replied as positively as possible.

‘What do you charge?’

I told her some standard rates. She found the price acceptable and gave me her details. An hour later I stepped out of a taxi on a leafy street in Mill Hill. The house was a whitewashed detached building with a gravel drive and neatly trimmed hedges. Anywhere else in the world it would be an unremarkable dwelling but in these parts it suggested the presence of millionaires. That and the two Mercs on the drive, of course. I guess I should have suspected something: who parks two Mercs on the drive during the day, after all? The suburbs are full of sexual adventurers, so they tell me.

I rang the doorbell and a gym-wife in her late forties answered. These are a special type of client, basically bored housewives who have given up fucking their Pilates instructors. Most of my Jennies are professional types, but there are a few ladies of leisure who frequent my services. This woman was one of them.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘You’re younger than I thought.’

‘I just look after myself. I must say that you look very well yourself.’ She did too: slim, woollen skirt over good legs, frilly blouse and elegantly bobbed light hair. Little pearl earrings, too, to which I later imagined myself adding a necklace, if I knew her type.

‘Well I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she added, looking me up and down.

‘So they tell me,’ I replied with a smile.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.

‘If you insist.’

We walked through into a wide, thickly carpeted living room. She poured bourbon from a sideboard for both of us, necked hers, waited while I did likewise, and then walked towards me.

‘Shall we?’ she enquired.

‘My pleasure.’

‘No, no. My pleasure,’ she purred, handing me an envelope.

Now people come to professionals for all sorts of reasons: some for a bit of fun, some to cure frustration, some to experiment. My suspicion in this case was that my client wanted one thing: sex tricks.

We went upstairs to a cream and silk bedroom with a large mirror in front of an emperor-sized bed. I kissed her and slowly unbuttoned her top, sitting her down on the bed. She was hard bodied and lithe, and I massaged her shoulders and back as I slipped off an expensive bra. Her breasts were tanned and freckled: quality aesthetic surgery had clearly taken place.

‘By the way,’ she said, as I flicked her nipple gently with my tongue, ‘do you mind if my husband watches?’

‘No,’ I said, without hesitation. ‘Where is he? He can join in if you like.’

‘No,’ she said, apparently noticing me cast a sly look around the room. ‘You won’t even see him.’

‘OK. You’re the boss.’

‘Too right.’

From then on I was under orders, and she got the lot: a thorough working over of her nipples and breasts, a massage of her legs and thighs and once I’d slipped off a pair of almost invisible knickers she produced a vibrator from somewhere under the bed which I put to use on her whole body.

Then I tongued the alphabet and hummed a whole set of tunes between her legs: the result was a noisy ovation. She was soon gobbling enthusiastically at my cock, before I slipped on a condom. Then she pushed me over and manoeuvred herself on top of me, admiring herself in the mirror as she flicked herself to a third or possible fourth coming while I tweaked hard on her tight nipples. She twisted around a couple of times, encouraging me to play with her buttocks from behind. Then she rolled off and shifted onto all fours, barking an order to me over her shoulder. I duly obliged with gusto.

Up until then, all fine. Until I heard a car pull up on the drive. I paused momentarily and looked in the direction of the window.

‘Keep going! I’m almost there!’ she shouted at me over her shoulder and through gritted teeth.

‘Erm, OK,’ I said, putting my back into it as she returned to groaning appreciatively. ‘But you do know that someone’s just parked up outside?’

‘Ahh. Fuck. Whatever.’

I could tell that she wasn’t paying too much attention, and continued stroking my cock in and out of her. We were back in our stride once more, her breathing getting deeper and louder.

Until we were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

The client shot away from me quicker than if I’d told her I had crabs.

‘Shit! It’s my husband: get in there!’ she hissed, pulling open what I’d thought was just a mirror.

I looked at her in confusion.

‘My real husband,’ she added.

I dived into the room as requested, and she shoved a handful of clothes towards me. I thought I’d be in a bathroom, or a cupboard. Instead, I was in a small room, comfortably decked out with plush seats and a couple of TV monitors. And what I now realised was a one-way window.

It was a viewing gallery. I was impressed. She really was an adventuress. But the sight of a slightly chubby, balding man in his fifties, semi-erect cock in hand, immediately disgusted away my erection. The door was closed and locked behind me.

‘I thought you were her husband,’ I whispered to him in the dark.

He laughed nervously.

‘I’m her friend. It’s a game. I like to watch. She lets me.’

‘Clearly,’ I replied. ‘Look, would you mind not masturbating anymore? I find it rather off-putting.’

‘Sorry. I was quite close, that’s all.’

‘Right. Well stop it. Particularly now I’m in here too.’

I heard voices outside. Raised voices.

‘Fuck this,’ I said. With a shove the door opened. I pulled on my trousers and looked for my shirt. As I did so, the client entered again.

‘Shit! What are you doing out? Get dressed, he’s coming.’ She shoved me in a random direction, coincidentally towards the window, while locking the viewing gallery with the poor voyeur inside.

‘What’s left of your knickers is on the floor,’ I advised.

She looked like someone who’d just been interrupted during professional sex. Footsteps on the stairs brought a wave of panic.

‘Quick,’ she said, gesturing me towards the window. Pulling on my shirt, I found myself climbing out of the window. Luckily I’m light and strong enough, but after five minutes doing a poor impression of a Banksy, my arms gave up. I scrabbled down onto the porch roof and then down onto the patio. A third Merc was on the drive. As I scampered away and into a passing taxi, I imagined an ugly little man about to have some very difficult explaining to do; I only hoped he hadn’t come. Rather him than me, although I was pissed off enough about the whole scene. It was frankly unprofessional. She could have at least told me that it was pantomime season.

Next time I’ll have to tell you a bit more about me, like I promised.

Chapter Three

I said that I was going to tell you a bit about me, but I got distracted. Sorry. I’ll try not to again, but it’s a busy job at times.

So, here we go. I was lucky to be blessed with a number of advantages, mainly, I must admit, physical. I was born in Argentina to parents from Spain: that’s why I have a name that no one can pronounce – Cesc Aleixandre, Cesc to anyone except my parents – and no one can tell where it’s from. My father was in the diplomatic service, and we ended up being posted to London before I knew what was what. I guess I must have been two or three years old, max. To say that my father was an anglophile would be an understatement. Part of the deal with the diplomatic service was that I often found myself at school in a different town or even country from my parents, so I got used to a great degree of freedom as a boy, as well as never really being particularly close to my family.

What with my background, I always look slightly foreign, and don’t really know what to say when people ask me where I’m from. I am, I guess, a citizen of the world, and being just a little bit exotic seems to help in this line of work. From my dad I got a tall but slim frame, dark hair, greenish-brown eyes, and a little too much body hair – don’t worry, we’ll deal with that later. From my mum I got dress sense and good teeth.

From neither did I get the, well, let’s say equipment that you might think a man needs for this job. But let’s be clear: I’m not a stripper. It’s not for show. It’s for a pro. Experience has taught me that charm and looks are more important than a big cock before we get down to business. And once we do get to the business end of things, having an average-sized member can be quite an advantage. It means I’ve got to work at it. I’ve spoken to a few of my clients about this. They’ve paid for guys who are truly blessed, who make a big play of being ten- or twelve-inchers, or who have a girth that could plug a manhole. No pun. But that’s all they get, and, so they say – because I have this only on second-hand authority – being hammered with a monster member loses its charm after a while. I can imagine. Apparently those are the professionals who go with guys too. Whereas an appreciation of the female form and the type of imagination that you need with an average prick gives you, well, all the incentives that you need. Furthermore, if you’re not so blessed in the bungalow department, then, like me, you have to be prepared to do pretty much anything.

Like I said, I like to look after myself and always have done, even before I got into this line of work; I’m not a muscle freak, but I’m not shy of gyms and have been going since I started living in London. It’s quality time to spend with yourself, after all.

Self-confidence is also a factor: there’s a joke about Argentines that I think illustrates the point. There are two Argentine men in the street. One says to the other, ‘Have you got a light?’ The other pats his chest, his trouser pockets, and his back pockets. ‘No,’ he replies. ‘But I’ve got a fantastic body.’ I’m not sure where I stand on genes and personalities, but I’ve never lacked confidence, and an optimistic outlook is very useful in this trade.

I said earlier that I’d come back to body hair. Chest hair some women like, some don’t have an opinion. But the female world, as far as I can tell, is united in a remarkably intense dislike for back and shoulder hair, so I remove it.

Depilation has two advantages: firstly, it removes the offensive rug that only bear fetishists and Eastern European wrestlers seem to tolerate. Secondly, it gives you a greater understanding of the dedication that women have to looking good. The first few times I wept like a child after only the first couple of strips. But with practice, whisky and a couple of painkillers beforehand, I got used to the sting. My clients make the effort, and they’re paying, so it’s the very least I can do.

I’ve even found work while taking care of the product, as it were; like I said, word of mouth is all-important, and I’m convinced someone’s spread the word at the gym. A couple of times I’ve found myself being checked out there.

On one occasion, a woman in her thirties kept looking at me as if I were familiar. She was dressed in skin-tight gym kit that offered such minimal coverage that it barely passed for underwear, with her dark hair tied severely back in a ponytail. She gave off the air of a marketing manager on her day off, a powerful woman pounding away on the treadmill next to me. As her determined stare caught my eye, it became clear that someone had pointed her in my direction. I smiled back and then later popped a sneaky business card into her gym bag. She duly called a couple of days later and we were soon carrying out a special workout of our very own. I was most impressed by the ease with which she crossed over from her gym routine to her sex life.

The town house where I visited her was glassy and pristine, furnished with low angular sur. . .