by Jason Ayres
Today was to be an odd day. It was the anniversary of my wife’s death. Stacey was coming up for the day and we were going to visit the grave.
It felt odd to be going to pay respects to someone I had never met. I had searched the deepest recesses of my mind over the past year to see if I could remember even the slightest thing about her, but had drawn a complete blank. But I knew that Stacey would be upset, and I vowed to do my best to play my part as the grieving husband and father.
As I waited for Stacey to arrive, I had time to reflect on the events of the past year. I had planned not to lead a hedonistic lifestyle, but I had had more success in some areas than others.
I was pleased with myself that I had managed to stay off the cigarettes. I still felt the cravings every morning when I awoke, but I forced myself to remember the terrible state I had ended up in at the hospital, in particular the agonising pain that had racked my wasted body in the last few days. That in itself was enough to stop me.
Instead I had indulged myself in plenty of food and drink to take my mind off it. But smoking was by no means the only thing on my mind. As my health returned, with it came my libido, which left me in a somewhat frustrating situation.
To put it in a nutshell, I wanted sex. I needed sex. And unlike most of the other things that I could have in my strange reverse world, sex was the one thing that was more, not less, difficult to come by.
For the average middle-aged divorcee it probably wasn’t that easy to begin with, especially if you came equipped with balding grey hair and a pot belly.
Although I scrubbed up reasonably well now that my body had returned to reasonable health, I faced the problem that the only way I was going to have any sex was if I could make it happen within the span of a single day.
I couldn’t even remember the precise details of what sex was like, though I hoped that if and when it did come along I would know what to do. I’d managed to drive the car without any problem, so hopefully sex would be just as straightforward.
I’m sure I’d read somewhere that sex was just like riding a bike – once you’d learnt, you never forgot. All I needed now was to find out if it was true.
Purely in the interests of research, as they say, I spent a great deal of time looking at internet porn. My hormones went through the roof as I fantasised day and night about women’s bodies and the things I would like to do with them.
I was like a teenager, constantly on heat, desperate to lose my virginity. It had become an all-consuming obsession and, until I could get this monkey off my back, I could barely think about anything else.
I wondered if I had any female “friends with benefits” from the past who might be able to help me out, but a search through my emails and phone messages proved fruitless. The messages on my phone only went back about a year, and were pretty uninteresting, all told.
Other than a couple in the summer relating to some sort of charity golf event, the rest were mostly promotional texts from companies I had presumably bought things from in the past.
Most of my emails were the same. Had my life always been this boring, or had I just let myself go? It didn’t seem as if I had any sort of social life at all.
So if I was to “lose my virginity” as I saw it, it wasn’t looking likely that it was going to be with anyone I knew. I wondered whether a one-night stand might be the way to go, so I headed out to explore Oxford’s nightlife on a couple of occasions.
Both were dismal failures. The first time I headed out to some of the traditional old pubs in the centre of the city favoured by students. It was late spring at the time and they were packed with Oxford’s finest, pretty girls in short dresses and young, smart men in the full flush of youth.
No one seemed interested in talking an aging old has-been standing at the bar with a pint of bitter. I’d found myself ordering the traditional ale automatically. Presumably it was what I’d always drunk; I certainly enjoyed it, that was for sure.
I ended up sinking half a dozen pints before I headed off to a kebab van on George Street for some doner meat and chips and then home.
The second time I went more for the townie pubs in the hope of meeting some more down-to-earth people, but it was hopeless. I even ventured into a nightclub but I both felt, and probably looked, ridiculous. I was at least a decade, possibly two, too old for this sort of thing.
I consoled myself that I still had it all to look forward to, went home, put on some porn and had a wank. It was sad, desperate and lonely. But what else could I do? I’m sure in any normal life I wouldn’t have had any difficulty finding a girlfriend, but it was a tall order to make it happen in one day. Getting to know someone in the traditional way wasn’t an option.
Out of the blue, Stacey brought up the subject of dating one Sunday when she came over for lunch.
“Dad, I worry that you’re lonely,” she said.
“I’m OK,” I replied, even though I wasn’t. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I don’t mind if you want to get a new girlfriend, Dad. It’s been over six years since Mum died. You don’t have to be on your own.”
I knew she meant well, but how could I explain to her that what she was proposing was impossible?
She continued by suggesting I check out some dating websites. Out of curiosity, I did just that.
They varied from the reasonably respectable to those that were blatantly just for hook-ups, if they were even genuine sites. Judging by all the pop-ups on the porn sites claiming that there were loads of hot women nearby just ready to jump into bed with me, there were plenty of people out there ready to fleece inadequate men for their money.
I tried signing up to one of the more respectable ones first thing one morning, but as I’d thought would happen, I just couldn’t get it all done in a day. I tried messaging various women on the site, but the response rate was slow.
Even when I did get an answer the same day, my suggestion we met that very same day was always rejected. Perhaps it came across as desperate. It was very frustrating, as some of the women I did manage to get in touch with through the site seemed very genuine and friendly, but their offers to meet up the following weekend were of course useless as far as I was concerned.
It seemed that there was only one option left to me. If I wanted sex, I was going to have to go to a prostitute.
I resisted the idea at first. After all, what sort of men went to prostitutes? Bored married men? Sad, inadequate men who couldn’t get sex any other way? The idea repulsed me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
I was a special case, a man out of time with needs that could not be fulfilled any other way. Had I been living a normal life, I would have quite happily taken my time, dated, found the right woman, and settled into a monogamous relationship. But I wasn’t living a normal life.
Some might have thought it was disrespectful to the memory of my dead wife to go off and pay for sex. Under normal circumstances I might have agreed, but since I had no memory of her, how could I feel guilty about it?
Once I’d made the decision, I began to scour the internet to find what I was looking for. Initially I typed in “Escorts in Oxford”, which directed me to a number of sites, but then I decided it might be best if I headed further afield. The phrase “don’t shit on your own doorstep” came to mind.
Whilst there might not be any consequences for me, the thought that in the future of this timeline Stacey might discover that her father used prostitutes was something I’d prefer to avoid. It was far less likely if I kept my sordid activities away from Oxford.
It seemed that Milton Keynes was a hotbed of paid sexual activity which was perfect for my needs. Far enough from Oxford to be discreet, near enough to get to in an hour or so. My mind was made up: I was going to do this.
There were a number of agencies, all with websites displaying galleries of their girls, mostly with their faces pixelated out, along with the prices. I decided to ring a couple to check them out. I got no answer at all from the first one I ra
ng, but the other was answered by a friendly enough sounding girl, who introduced herself as the maid.
I explained that I hadn’t done anything like this before, but she did everything she could to set my mind at ease. I said I’d ring back later if I wanted to make an appointment.
The following day, I rang the agency at lunchtime and spoke to the maid again. Having introduced myself a second time, I made an appointment for 3pm. I could barely contain my excitement as I drove to Milton Keynes.
I felt excited, dirty and bad all at the same time. I couldn’t believe what I was about to do. But in my mind I had already justified it to myself. I had no feasible alternative.
I drove up outside the address the maid had given me, a large, anonymous brick-red apartment building no different from many others in the area surrounding the massive shopping centre. I parked up and, shaking with nervousness, rang the bell to be let in.
The maid buzzed me in and I took the lift up to the third floor and knocked on the door. She opened the door and let me in.
She looked older than I expected, possibly mid-forties, and led me through to a remarkably ordinary-looking sitting room. If you had not known this was a brothel, there was nothing to make you suspect as such. She introduced herself to me properly as “Candy” and offered me a drink.
She explained that while she no longer offered services herself, she organised all of the appointments for the other girls and that there would be someone free to see me shortly.
I had mentioned on the phone that I had not done this before, so Candy said that she had chosen the perfect girl for my first time. She then asked me for the paperwork.
Momentarily confused, I asked what she meant, before realising she meant payment. I handed over the £150 I had paid for the hour. She took it from me without checking it, and then asked me to wait for a couple of minutes.
She left the room, closing the door behind her. A couple of minutes later, the door opened again and in walked a very full-figured black girl, probably in her late-twenties.
I recognised her from the gallery on the website as “Marie”, where she had been described as a “BBW”, which I later discovered stood for “Big Beautiful Woman”. Not having been able to see her features clearly on the website, I was pleased to see that she had a pretty, rounded face and a clear complexion.
She certainly was very ample and I found that quite appealing, particularly her enormous breasts. She was very friendly, and led me through to a simple bedroom, spartanly furnished, with the main feature being a double bed.
The curtains were drawn and there were some candles lit on the bedside table. If I was expecting the place to be a den of iniquity, full of whips and chains and other paraphernalia, I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
I had asked for the “GFE” option, which stood for “girlfriend experience”, and as soon as we were in the room she was all over me, kissing me and rubbing her hands across my back. I was finding it very enjoyable. I didn’t feel like I was having some sordid knee trembler from some cheap tart as I had imagined. I could quite easily have believed that this really was a true girlfriend experience as she lavished me with kisses and affection.
Of course, I knew it was all an act, but I was caught up in the moment, and allowed myself to pretend that it was real. If nothing else, it would be good practice for when the genuine article did come along.
When she unbuttoned her bra, letting her huge breasts swing out freely in front of her, I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven. All I wanted to do was immerse myself in this beautiful black lady and forget about everything else. I couldn’t care less about how much of it was an act, or how many hundreds of other men had been inside her before me, this was my moment and I was going to enjoy it.
As I let her take the lead and seduce me, all of the pain I had suffered, the sexual frustration and the mystery and uncertainty of my life, faded away. When my release came, it felt as if a huge weight had been released from my shoulders.
And it was true. It was like learning to ride a bike. I hadn’t forgotten what to do.
Afterwards, Marie cuddled up to me and stroked my arm gently as we chatted a while. I had not expected it to be anything like this at all. There was still half an hour left of the appointment so she offered me a massage which soon got me going again, enabling me to perform for a second time before the hour was up.
I felt quite euphoric after I had left. So I’d had sex with a prostitute – twice. It was no big deal. I’d had an itch and I’d scratched it. I felt now that I was ready to move on with my life and face whatever came next.
Despite my enjoyment of the experience, I saw it very much as a one-off at that time, and never went back to Milton Keynes - well not for sex anyway. When I did return there years earlier, it was for the delights of Christmas shopping.
As things turned out, this was not destined to be my only foray into paid sex. Many more adventures lay ahead on that front, but they would all come much later.
My trip to Milton Keynes had taken place a couple of months ago, in late-February 2024. Since then, I’d had the opportunity to see a New Year in properly, not dying in a hospital bed, and to enjoy another Christmas with Stacey and David, where this time I’d been on top form in the kitchen, roasting a magnificent beast of a turkey. It was way too big for the three of us, but we enthusiastically devoured as much of it as we could.
After a year, I had grown incredibly devoted to Stacey. It seemed she was pretty much the only family I had left. I had been an only child and my parents had long since died. She was the one bright light in my otherwise fairly aimless life, and she helped me to keep my feet on the ground.
And so it was, on this freezing cold December day that she drove me the short distance to the cemetery just outside Oxford where my wife was buried. It was the first time I had been there. I had thought about going before, but wasn’t entirely sure where the headstone would be: there were thousands there.
Stacey had brought fresh flowers to put on the grave, and as we walked along the narrow, stony path, she held my hand and led me to the place.
The stone was white marble with gold lettering on it. It read as follows:
Here lies Sarah Scott, beloved wife of Thomas and mother of Stacey
Born 16th June 1978. Died 22nd December 2017.
Rest in peace.
For the first time I really felt something. Over time, I had learnt of the circumstances surrounding Sarah’s death, and knew that when the time came, I was determined to put things right.
She had been killed on the night of her office Christmas party by a drunk driver who had mown her down on a zebra crossing. There had been no opportunity to say goodbye: her death had been instant.
That wasn’t going to happen. I had saved four people from the fire at the furniture store. Now, when the time came, I would be there to save Sarah and I had six years to plan how I was going to do it.
June 2023
I was about to take part in my first-ever social event. I couldn’t keep living the life of a recluse forever, and now that I was in full health, I needed to find things to do to occupy my time.
With Stacey living in London, and no work commitments, I had most of my days to myself. I spent them reading, studying and learning every possible scrap of information about not only my own life, but also the history and culture of the past 50 years or so.
Life would get busier for me as I got younger. The more homework I did now while things were quiet, the better I would be prepared for what was to come.
One day late in the summer when I was rummaging around the piles of junk in the garage, I came across a set of old golf clubs. They looked like they hadn’t been used much recently and could do with a good clean.
I took them in and opened up the bag to get a decent look at them. In the side pocket I found a half-eaten, mouldy sandwich and a half-drunk bottle of orange juice which I threw away in disgust. Goodness knows how long they had been in there.
Then I start
ed cleaning up the clubs before realising there was no point. They would only be dirty again tomorrow. I still made such mistakes occasionally.
I then remembered the emails and texts I had seen about the golf event and went to check them out.
It seemed I had been invited to some sort of charity event organised by someone called Nick. The emails very handily had both the name of the golf course and the tee times on it.
I also had a few texts from Nick from some weeks beforehand. The first one read as follows:
Hey, mate, long time no see. Just wondered if you’d be up for the charity golf do this year. Would be great to see you.
I then looked at my reply. This was something else I was finding weird, reading my own emails and texts. It seemed I’d agreed to go before, so I decided that I may as well go with the flow and go again. It would get me out of the house for the day and give me the opportunity to meet new people.
A few days before the big day, I decided I had better go for a bit of practice just to check that I could actually do this, so I drove up to a course just outside Oxford, got a basket of 100 balls out of the machine, and took them up to the driving range.
When I got there, I discovered that the sandwich, not looking quite as decomposed as the last time I had seen it, was still in there. I disposed of it and the bottle of juice once again, this time in a bin behind the driving booths.
My attempts at driving were a dismal failure. Whilst I seemed able to grip the club OK, the balls went all over the place. One went so far to the right, almost 90 degrees from where I was standing, that I heard a distinct “Oi!” shouted from a booth further along the range.
Could it be that the ability to play golf was something that I had not retained from my former life? Perhaps the ‘riding the bike’ rule didn’t apply to golf. Either that, or was I just a bit rusty? In fact, it was neither, as I was about to discover.
I had a late tee time on the Sunday, 4pm, making me part of the last group to set out. There were over 32 teams taking part in fourballs, so it was clearly a major event.