Finding a boyfriend is easy, but scoring a top cleaner is not. Particularly one with benefits, who’ll stay at the house after going off duty and, in exchange for dinner and a Golden Angel martini, help me dirty up my bed. I drove home – with Karume – a content woman.
I phoned up Jahnet and told her about Karume.
‘Now you have to start all over again, Suzanne,’ she said. ‘Again. This is the second time you’ve strayed from the path. Find your three tantric lovers, dear. Three! And no boyfriends!’
‘Well, Karume was a tantric lover,’ I protested.
‘And a boyfriend as well,’ she scolded. ‘You disobeyed me, going out with those silly men. No boyfriends. Now you have to start all over again.’
She was right. I didn’t need a boyfriend. I had fallen into a relationship with Karume even though I knew he wasn’t Mr Right – he wasn’t even Mr Almost. I should have stuck to my homework of finding three tantric partners.
I grabbed my mobile and scrolled the names of erstwhile funboys. After trying and failing at a monogamous setup with Jack, I’d learned my lesson and not deleted anyone’s number despite taking up with Karume. I hadn’t told any of my guys I’d exited the scene; I just stopped calling and responding to messages.
My first call was to Tantric Andy.
‘So glad to hear from you, Suzanne,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you. I’d given up hope I’d ever find such a perfect pussy again.’
Now I just needed two more willing guys. I typed a brief message to the contenders: I’M AROUND THIS WEEKEND. ARE YOU FREE? IT WOULD BE NICE TO SEE YOU. Then I plugged into the address line the names of my favourite playmates, and hit Send.
I got wet just thinking about the auditions ahead and wondered if Jahnet would consider that a good thing. Tantric is about spending time with someone purely for the sake of pleasure, so, in essence, my funboys were all tantric partners in training – seekers of pleasure who were generous with their bodies and open to new ways of thinking. I’d never get an ‘A’ in my tantric class, but maybe a ‘B+’ was within sight. In line with Jahnet’s criteria, my funboys would never be boyfriends; we saw each other just on weekends and rarely more than once a month; and our sessions were devoted to mutual pleasure and nothing more.
Within a minute of sending the text message, my phone lit up.
WELCOME BACK. I’D LOVE TO SEE YOU. LET’S MEET UP. It was from Greg. Tall blond athletic marathon-fuck, Big Cock London Greg.
I smiled. I was back on the market. And it felt good.
The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker Page 23