by Ned Williams
We went down to his living room and whilst I lounged around on his sofa he went into the kitchen to make some tea. There was a commanding knock on the front door.
“Could you answer that, please, my sweet?” I looked around for something to throw on to cover my nakedness. He must have scanned my mind. “Don’t worry about getting on your glad–rags. Just go as you are. It’s a friend of mine. She knows the score.” I quickly sussed this was why I was being paid to be scantily dressed.
As I opened the door, the ‘friend’s’ eyes popped. He walked past me and as I closed the door and turned to face him, he extended a hand to my pants. My employer came into the lounge with a tray piled high with a selection of dainties. As he slid the tray onto a leather coffee table he delivered, in no uncertain terms, “Doris, you just keep those grubby little paws to yourself, there’s a sweet. He’s all mine – all seven inches of him. Go, get your own trade, you green eyed bitch.”
“Joan, my precious, I was always taught that friends should share and share alike,” dripped the visitor as he sat on the sofa in a huff. I was then subjected to a belligerent stare as if it were my fault he’d been duped.
“Not everything, my pretty. Eccles cake?” He offered a plate.
There followed a strange tea party. I had to serve the visitor with tea and cakes. He was becoming angry but it was now aimed at his host.
I now understood the subtext of the scene. My mentor had wanted to flaunt me in front of a sexual rival. He’d invited his poor victim over for afternoon tea. It was part of his plan to keep both of us in the dark about this secret arrangement. It became clear he’d timed ‘Doris’’ arrival to coincide with our apparent compromising situation. This was designed to stir the maximum amount of jealousy in the newcomer. My feelings, naturally, didn’t count. I actually felt like a pivotal piece in a strange board game.
I did, however, manage a blow for the downtrodden when, after about an hour, my client left the room to go to the toilet. His friend slipped me a piece of paper containing his phone number. “Don’t say anything to Joan, but use it. It’ll be well worth your while,” he mumbled. I was so angry at the way he’d been treated; I thrust the paper into my pants.
“I promise,” I whispered as I smiled at my returning trick.
I kept that promise. Unbeknownst to my client, I added another regular appointment to my ever–expanding diary.
Because of the new ranges in my experience, I was getting bored with the silly games at school. With an irresistible few exceptions, I withdrew my participation from all activities to do with the bedroom. Now my peers seemed to be clued up on what to do, the instruction was self–perpetuating. My expertise was no longer required. This suited me very well for I had come to the conclusion that they needed me more than I needed them. Besides, my clients and I had ascended to higher levels. With someone who was young and very available breaking on to the scene, I was now in demand by adults instead of silly, giggling, game–playing children.
Rates and Brian
You may have noticed that my father hasn’t featured in my story for a while. Don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t forgotten about him. Indeed, since I’d started branching out, he hardly left my thoughts. On the few occasions I stayed in, I was banned from bashing out Beethoven or Verdi on the beaten up old 78-rpm gramophone I had. I would stare malevolently at him as he slumped in his chair, snoring his head off and dribbling like a baby. He looked grotesque. It served to reinforce the reason for my double life. Occasionally, he still tried it on with me but I soon put him in his place with a look in my eyes, which I’d learned to cultivate. These pathetic attempts of his became less and less. Soon they stopped altogether. However, flashes of anger towards me replaced his sexual advances. I think fear of what I might still reveal, drove him to establish some sort of authority.
In retrospect, I think there is more than a snowball’s chance in hell that some of my new clients could be people he knew. Even so, I find it difficult to believe any of them would have had sex with my father. They were much too old for him and he would certainly be too old for them – but, any port in a storm. At the time, though, the possibility never crossed my mind. Who knows? In maturity, I have often speculated as to what would have happened if he had suddenly turned up at one of those sex gatherings which I attended. As I was becoming so heavily involved in the local scene, it could have been more than a distinct possibility.
Due to the close proximity of my home, coupled with a bit of indispensable advice from another boy in the same position as myself, I began using another name for my secret life. At least, by using a nom de plume, there would be less chance of my newly acquired double life being discovered. I felt it would be helpful if I chose something a little exotic. I went through the names of my favourite writers, artists and composers, finally settling on ‘Carl’. The name was, at the time, rarely used, as, I assume, it sounded too German. World War II was still fresh in the mind of the general population. After I had chosen my name, I spent ages looking at myself in my bedroom mirror, repeating it over and over again to myself until I took on a ‘Carl’ identity. ‘Steve’, at least for the large part of my life, was about to be sent into hibernation.
Although I had withdrawn sexual favours from the majority of my school chums, they still wanted me to hang around with them socially. I think this was because I was fairly flushed with money and they weren’t. I had to invent another, fictional, group of friends who I saw on a regular basis so my lack of time spent with them was not questioned. In fact, it had the reverse effect. I became a mystery. My silence over my other life was never broken, even when they threatened to follow me to find out where I went.
This reinforced the habit I was beginning to follow. I was compartmentalising my life. It took great care and manoeuvring to ensure each pigeonhole was totally self–contained. It was quite a juggling act, but I think I succeeded.
Even after all my careful preparations, it took me some time to fully take on the persona of ‘Carl’. Clients frequently had to make two or three attempts at a question before realising it was aimed at me. Eventually, after a few weeks, I found I could slip seamlessly between my two identities. The only problem came when there was a second ‘Steve’ around. I sometimes forgot and automatically attempted to answer a question, which had nothing to do with me.
Although my price had gone up, I was still only coining between three and five pounds a session. This was because I still refused, with very few exceptions, to go further than mutual masturbation and/or oral sex. Sadly, the five–pound tricks were few and far between, but they were there to be had. I was regularly offered a great deal more if I was willing to ‘turn over’, but, as I’ve said before, it was something I had no desire to practice. I was, by now, screwing the odd client on a regular basis and, though I found it quite exciting, I couldn’t really understand what they got out of it. This form of sex was, naturally, ‘extra’. I found I could add more onto my rates of charges by being a member of a group. There were some clients who enjoyed having a collection of local kids around for a low–key orgy. At these parties, I always half expected to meet some of my school friends, but I never did. The main supply came from either the local grammar school, or the public school that resided in our borough. Even though I went to a school, which boasted at least three pregnant girls per year (complete with the occasional sudden disappearance of a male teacher), because of my love of the arts, these advantaged lads blindly accepted me as their equal.
Ever since those intermittent group mucking around sessions with my school friends in that railway waiting room, I had been quite happy to participate in having sex with a cluster of people. With my friends, I had been the one who was making all the moves but now I was able to take advantage of others who knew what they were doing. The teacher had become a pupil. It was exciting and, through it, I quickly lost any remaining inhibitions.
At one of these sessions, a grammar school boy suggested an ingenious scam if, from a casual pick–up,
no money was being offered. He told me to resort to the simple expedient of dropping into the conversation that it was my birthday. The idea was brilliant and each time I used it, the ruse invariably worked. Either a surreptitious gift of money was slipped suggestively into my trouser pocket, or the car was stopped and the purchase of some trinket or other was made from a convenient shop. I suppose they thought it wasn’t paying for sex – instead, it went under the guise of a birthday present.
The meagre pocket money I received from my parents was still in the area of single figures from the shilling department. The income from my other life amounted to the grand average of about twenty pounds a week, which was, in the late fifties, the wage of a well–paid grown man. It was a size of income, which could have reasonably housed a family of four in some comfort. These illicit earnings also brought their own difficulties.
My little hiding place was getting rather full. It was becoming an urgent mission to find somewhere else for the money I was earning. I had developed an occasional interest in stamp collecting and I saw this as a way of converting some of the cash into an asset, which wouldn’t take up space. I bought some rare issues that could easily be buried in my small collection. I didn’t have to worry about my mother spotting these treasures as her lack of knowledge of philately guaranteed her ignorance. Foolishly, I also lodged some surplus notes in envelopes with school friends. It soon became clear how many people were not to be trusted. My cash mysteriously and constantly disappeared from the envelopes. At first, I shrugged it off as a price worth paying to avoid being caught by my parents. However, I eventually realised I needed another plan. In desperation, I turned to my good old mate, Brian.
Even before I’d caught him stroking his rampant erection in his bedroom, I had cultivated Brian as a friend. At school, we often hung around together. He was easy going as a companion and, I loved the privacy his room afforded. He was the brother I never had. His home was full of love and laughter; it acted like a strong, emotional magnet. What little spare time I had, I would spend it with him – and his family. I would call for him on my way to school and, during our breaks, shadowed him, in the playground. In short, I generally made a perfect nuisance of myself. His family never complained about my regular visits. Bless them!
Brian, like myself, was an only child. The only difference being, he was happy with his lot. He was the type of short, impish lad who would probably end up small and dumpy, with a small and dumpy family – loved by everyone who had the good fortune to know them. His black hair, even at that early age, showed some slight flecking of grey. By the time we left school to face the world of work, it was quite pronounced. His father, although getting on a little in years, was very much into sport which kept him from spreading too far into middle years. His stepmother was a beauty. Every one of our friends who met her must have used her for their wanking fantasies. One guy admitted that he’d had a rampant wet dream in which she figured prominently. She was slim and a good ten to twenty years younger than her husband. Her hair was jet black and there was a wild, romantic look to her eyes. She reminded me of a female Heathcliffe. She loved to flirt outrageously, but harmlessly, with each of us. I think she enjoyed giving us an emotional cheap thrill. Don’t get me wrong, I suspect if any one of us had taken it seriously and tried to respond physically, she would have flattened them.
“Why not open a Post Office Savings Account?” was Brian’s singularly sensible solution.
“I can’t.” The thought of my mother’s reaction at finding the paying in book with its complete record of my earnings flowing in and out caused me to shudder.
“Why not?” Good question, Brian! I wondered how I could get around it.
“It’s a bit of a secret,” was my ambiguous reply. He stared at me. What was he thinking? “I just can’t tell anyone about it – certainly not my mum and dad. They’re not the same as yours, you see? They’d ask me too many questions.”
After another stare, his face brightened. “I think I understand.”
‘I hope you don’t,’ I thought. “Can you help me, Brian? Please? I really am in a bit of a fix.”
“If you’re that worried, I’ve got a drawer at the bottom of my clothes cupboard I don’t use. You can keep yer dosh in there, if you like,” he kindly offered.
I knew it would be secure because, as I have previously mentioned, his family never intruded into his private domain.
“Brian, you’re an ace!”
The next day, when I went to call for him on the way to school, I gave him an envelope containing my hoard.
He opened the flap. “Fuck!”
“It’s…”
“I don’t think I want to know,” he said as he rammed the envelope under a pile of junk in the secret drawer. “There. It’ll be quite safe.”
All the time he was custodian to my little crock of gold, he never touched a penny. I tried to buy him little presents as a ‘thank you’ for playing banker. As he considered what he was doing was part of our friendship, I only managed to treat him with difficulty.
I had another reason to be eternally in his debt. He never showed any curiosity about the source of all this money. I’m sure he must have been dying to find out, but, as I said, he asked nothing.
Part Two – Aged 14 years
Andy
So far, I thought that I was doing rather well. There were my band of regulars, a constant flow of money and I was taking some sort of retribution against my father. Yes, so, it all seemed to be going rather well. Too well! Little did I know! I was about to have the door of my life not just thrown open but wrenched off its friggin’ hinges.
As usual, it all began with a series of chance events. Once again, an apparently insignificant meeting and a few casual words changed my life’s direction completely. This has happened so often throughout my existence, I should be used to it by now.
One Saturday evening, a client of mine had arranged a mini orgy for his delectation. He liked watching a small, select group of youths engage themselves in intimate wrestling. There were four of us (excluding the trick) and after we’d rolled around the floor in an attempt to make the wrestling look interesting for him, we relaxed into a group wank and settled down to have milk in cut–glass, crystal goblets and biscuits served up on a silver platter. I’m sure you know the type. One lad I’d been mauling more than the other two was sitting in the corner of the lounge and minding his own business. I found out he had just moved to the area and was earning some extra cash to buy a motorbike. Yes – you’re right, I knew more about what he had between his legs before I’d actually heard him speak. We spoke in hushed voices.
“It’s all a bit tame, isn’t it?” He whispered as he cast a bored, jaundiced eye around the room.
This stung. I didn’t want my illusions shattered, so I moved away to speak to the trick. The boy’s words must have penetrated my little brain because I kept staring at him. For his part, he merely munched away at the biscuits, grimaced at the milk and stared at the floor.
After the trick had hacked up my fee and made another appointment for the following week, I started my journey home.
There was a sudden shout from behind, “Hey! Slow down!” I turned and saw my critical friend running to catch me up. I sighed to myself and stopped to wait for him. He arrived, out of breath and condition. Lighting a cigarette, he offered to accompany me. I had no overriding objection. As I can’t remember his name, I’ll call him Stewart.
“You’re new to this game, aren’t you?”
Once again, I was stung. I thought I was quite the man of the world who knew it all – and had done quite a lot of it, thank you very much! “No!” I snapped. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been around quite a bit.”
“Oh, really?” he grinned, “and I suppose you think nothing could surprise you?”
“That’s right.” I was beginning to loathe the sight of him.
Understandably, he burst out laughing. “Well, how about this, then…” I was then lectured on how much I
could be surprised. I quickly graduated from arrogance to awe at what Stewart had done and how much I still needed to find out. Some of the things he told me shocked my boyish sensitivities. I thought I had been asked to get involved in some pretty quirky experiments, but it was as nothing compared to Stewart’s catalogue. Some of his claims were so outrageous; I began to doubt his veracity.
“You should get down to the town centre. I should think you’d be a total knock–out.”
“Oh, yes?” I voiced, trying to sound doubtful.
“Oh yes! But…” he put his hand on my arm to stop me, “being so young, if you do decide to go down there, be careful.”
“Why?”
“What are you, stupid?” Before I could angrily defend myself, he continued – “You’ll be a threat to the regular rents. They will, most likely resent you. Make sure you stay out of trouble.” He must have seen my look of disdain. “Sorry, – just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, thank you for the advice, but I think I’m doing very well as it is.” I made to go a different way.
“Look, before you buzz off home, I’ll tell you where the best places are to go. Information only.”
Coolly rushing back to his side, we continued our walk. I tried to appear nonchalant but made sure I committed to memory all he reported.
By the time Stewart and I parted company and I’d reached my front door, I’d gleaned from him directions to one of the chief ‘meat racks’, as he called them. He’d painted such an attractive picture; I thought it worth risking a visit. His warnings passed by me and I dismissed them with a confidant shrug. Yes, I’d be able to look after myself. I knew what I was doing.